


stockholm syndrome

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Also Of Knives, Canon-Typical Violence, Commander Murphy, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Grounder Clarke, Happy Ending, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, People Will Die, Sexual Content, Skyperson Lexa, Slow Burn, of fun!, sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 48,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: Murphy kom Trikru has been the Commander since he was eleven years-old, boasting an almost spotless track record of peace and abundance in the Twelve Clans. Then he takes a rogue Skyperson prisoner, who seems like he will stop at nothing to ruin it all.Murphy kind of likes his spark.





	1. of the bastard in the tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> big black car — gregory alan isakov
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, physical aftermath of torture]

He hadn’t climbed a tree since he was ten years old.

Sitting horseback in the countryside, imagining what the field of yellow wildflowers they were trampling might have looked like from a little higher up, it felt like a real waste to not be up in one.  But Murphy was far too busy for trees, and sometimes it seemed like they were taunting him. Everywhere he went, all around, full of flowers and fruit and little animals, and sometimes, Murphy had learned, people.

He narrowly dodged another stone. “Get him down!” he ordered_ again_, as his guards Dax and Mbege jumped against and scrabbled onto the trunk of the tree, climbing only ever high enough to be kicked back down by a boot.

The man in the tree was stocky and heavily freckled either by melanin or dirt, which he and his clothes were streaked with. His curly hair boasted a fair amount of twigs and leaves, and he held onto the trunk like he might have fallen out of it, his stones piled up in the basket he'd made of his shirt. 

At the base of the tree was a fire pit down to smoldering embers, a blanket, a bag, and a pile of shiny foil. Murphy wondered what he’d done to be banished from the Skypeople’s equally pitiful encampment, and stopped wondering just in time to duck underneath another gray blur. 

Surely the man was out of rocks by now, Murphy thought, and was promptly struck between the eyes in answer.  “Go float yourself,” spat the man in the tree, voice gruff and hateful.

Murphy’s vision swam as he rubbed at the quickly-forming bruise that, luckily, was only pebble-sized. “I have no idea what that means. Come down.”

“Why the hell would I come down?"

“Because it would save all of us a lot of time to kill you sooner rather than later, and I’m on a schedule. So come down.”

“No.” He threw another rock.

**_“Maybe you should throw them back,”_** said Hinko, one of the younger Commanders from inside the Flame. Not a bad idea, actually.

Murphy understood why the Skypeople might hate him enough to prolong their own deaths by trying to stone him instead. Landing in his territory in their little metal can and being picked off one-by-one by his warriors had probably implied that they weren’t going to be the best of friends.

He was headed to Tondc for that exact reason; to help nearby Trikru villages organize their attack on the invaders. Dax seemed to think it was beneath him to make an appearance for something so insignificant as wiping out the tiny village of trespassers, but Murphy needed a reason to get out of the house, so.

Another rock whizzed past, and Murphy thought maybe he would start with the bastard in the tree.

Mbege got ahold of the man’s ankle and yanked him down from the branch, tugging him by the waist as he held on for dear life and kicked furiously at the guard. Dax beat his hands off of the tree branch and wound them behind the man’s back, and Mbege drew his sword, holding it beneath the Skyperson’s chin. Then the two guards looked to Murphy, seeking permission to kill him.

“Heda?”

The Skyperson bared his teeth and thrashed against the guards as Murphy considered him.

“Tie him up," Murphy decided on a whim. "The more the merrier.”

“But, Heda—“ Dax began.

Murphy prickled, turning away and retrieving his reins. “He has intel. Do as I say.” His tone left no room for argument, and the Skyperson was quickly bound by a long rope and left stumbling along for the ride.

Hours later beyond the Trikru boundaries, Murphy became busy accepting hideous beaded bracelets from village children and being bombarded with demands from Anya. At some point the Skyperson was taken away by his guards, and Murphy soon forgot all about him, even as the bruise between his eyes ached in reminder.

The day melted quickly into night after a rather smooth war meeting and a hell of a lot of formalities: food, gifts, greetings, celebrations of Murphy’s existence that never stopped being awkward and leaving him both pleased and drained by the time night came.

Making their way toward a row of small wooden homes, so close to being able to collapse into a bed, Murphy clapped Mbege on the shoulder in thanks. He had had an equally long day keeping a vigilant eye on Murphy’s surroundings while Dax postured, and Murphy could see the beginnings of a boot print-shaped bruise on his forehead.

“We’ll head out at dawn,” he said. “Get some rest.” 

Mbege ducked his head in agreement, taking a step towards the empty cottage he’d be sharing with Dax for the night. Then he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “I meant to tell you, Heda, they’re holding the Skyperson in one of their cells. Six doors down.”

“Thanks, Mbege,” Murphy nodded, dismissing him. But he wasn’t all that interested in being spat on or hit with rocks anymore than he was earlier that day, so he turned toward his hut for the night, eager to get some sleep.

His many new, ugly bracelets clacked as he fiddled with them, and crickets chirped ceaselessly in the dark, and the blacksmith hammered away at a late night project. None loud enough to mask a sudden scream, long and furious and pained.

Murphy turned at the second scream, and began walking toward the sound at the third. At the fourth, he broke into a run.

The sixth door down swung open under his hand and he gripped the edge of it, watching the Skyperson bleed from a gash underneath his eye and stripes along his bare arms, watched it bloom from underneath his shredded shirt where he sat slumped on the floor. The many scars underneath Murphy’s clothes and armor ached.

**_“Stop,”_** urged Bekka Pramheda.

“Stop,” Murphy ordered. “Get away from the prisoner!" Dax, kneeling with a knife in one hand and the Skyperson’s wrist in the other, looked up, confused.

“Heda, I thought you said we needed him for intel.”

Murphy stalked forward and kicked Dax’s wrist, sending the knife flying out of his hand. “I didn’t say to_ torture_ him. This is not how we do things.”

A Trikru warrior whose identity was hidden by a metal mask, the eyes and mouth lined with animal teeth, stepped forward from a metal table in the shadows. He was holding a contraption that Murphy didn’t want to look at for too long.

“If I may speak, Heda. This is how we’ve always done things.”

“That was then, with the last Commander. This is now, and as your current Commander I’m _ordering_ you to pack up your little tools and get lost.”

“This is the_ only_ way to get information out of the enemy. He’s our chance to—”

Murphy turned to the torturer, his stare cold. “If we don't get information, then we don't get it. We outnumber them, we know where every hole and every crack in that pathetic wall of theirs is, and we have the land and weapons on our side. The Skypeople have nothing. This is a waste of your time and explaining myself is a waste of mine. Now, get. _Out.”_

The Trikru torturer seemed to stare Murphy down from behind his mask for a moment, and then, with a “Yes, Heda," silently began to put his tools away, into a chest tucked into the corner of the blood-stained floor.

“Dax, get him a healer.”

Dax stood, looking irritated, and Murphy shifted to let him out of the cell. The two men left quietly, heads bowed.

**_“Excellent display of power, but yet another stupid choice,” _**complimented Sheidheda.

The Skyperson was watching him, but as Murphy turned to look at him he quickly snapped his head away and glared at the floor.

“You’re welcome,” said Murphy. The Skyperson scoffed, returning no answer.

“Get some sleep," Murphy advised. "You got a long walk ahead of you in the morning.”

Murphy wouldn’t let someone be tortured, not even a Skyperson. If he left the man here, that’s exactly what would happen. But he couldn’t well release one of the enemy’s soldiers, either. If any of them could even be called that. So with them he came.

The man’s eyes widened a fraction at the floor, confused, but he didn’t ask where they were taking him. 

Murphy whipped his cape behind him and turned out of the cell, locking it behind him. Just as he put his hand on the hut’s door, the Skyperson spoke, voice rougher than before.

“You’re underestimating them. The hundred.”

“A hundred, huh?” Murphy asked, looking over his shoulder and raising a brow as the Skyperson’s face blanched.

After Murphy left the jail and found himself with a pillow under his head and the smoothness of old scars under his wandering fingers, he hoped that, for once, he was doing the right thing. Even if he wasn't quite sure why he was doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, surprise! this is large. @deanoruz 's birthday was a hot, HOT minute ago, and she wanted to read a commander murphy fic, and this spiraled out of control from there. sarah, i love you so much, happy VERY belated birthday, and thank you for always inspiring me :) ariel and elle, thank you two also for hyping me up while i was working on this.
> 
> as always this fic was a labor of love but is unbeta'd, if you notice any problems feel free to let me know
> 
> other notes:
> 
> -in this fic, murphy and clarke are both 20 years old, bellamy is 23, and lexa is 21
> 
> -i took some creative liberties with how the flame works and with grounder language (it doesn't make sense for americans who mostly speak english and spanish to create an entirely new language after the apocalypse and then sometimes speak very formal english it just doesn't so in this fic trigedasleng is more of a secret code/familial language/war language, which may or may not be real things but i'm trying very hard to cooperate with canon)
> 
> -murphy's servants do get paid a living wage. not to worry.
> 
> -this fic does include a fair amount of graphic violence and a few deaths, i'll put content warnings in the beginning notes of each chapter, so don't read those if you like a surprise
> 
> -mood songs too!
> 
> okay! get in there! please enjoy & leave a kudos (and a comment, she begged) if you do, it's always nice to know people are reading :)
> 
> SARAH, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU.


	2. of the body of mbege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> toxic — yael naim 
> 
> [chapter cw // murder, blood]

Bellamy wasn’t sure how long he expected to last.

He’d only left camp to escape his inevitable Ark-sanctioned execution (on the grounds of, oh, just shooting the Chancellor) a week ago, nothing to his name but a backpack full of stolen rations, a canteen, a blanket, and the clothes on his back. Clothes that were now shredded, clinging to his skin with blood and dirt and sweat.

They’d been walking nearly all day, and only once the moon had risen again did they stop. One of the Grounders untied the other end of the rope that bound him from their saddle, shoved him to the ground, tied his ankles together, and dragged him toward the fire pit that the one they called _Heda_ was setting up.

He huffed as his spine hit the ground, and sat up to watch the leader blow on a handful of dry grass and glowing embers until it burst into a flame, and then feed it to the firewood inside a circle of stones. Bellamy eyed those stones all night, clueless as the three men spoke the evening away in their own language and ate their supper, until they’d all fallen asleep, even the guard who was meant to be watching him.

Once everything had gone especially still and quiet, Bellamy rocked onto his side and grabbed one of the stones from the fire pit, rolling it in his palms. He had nothing to lose, now, and taking out a couple of Grounders while he had the chance was the least he could do for Octavia, and the delinquents he’d left behind.

Maybe the leader, the one with the curling face tattoo and the dark paint around his sharp eyes, arm lined to the elbow with gifts of beaded jewelry, red cape thrown over him in his sleep; maybe he was important. Maybe killing him would plunge the Grounders into just enough chaos to buy the hundred some time.

He inched on his knees and elbows over to the drowsy guard, straightened himself up, and brought the stone down hard.

The Grounder went quietly, falling to the side and painting the wildflowers underneath him red. 

The second, crueler Grounder; the one who had made him bleed first and asked questions later, was practically dead to the world the way he was snoring. He could go last. Bellamy set his eyes on the leader.

He crawled over to the Grounder and examined him. He slept peacefully but guarded, his arms crossed over his chest, holding his cape to him like a blanket. He looked young.

Bellamy was young too, and so were the hundred, he decided, and felt nothing as he raised the bloody stone over his head. But before he could finish what he’d started, something sharp dug into his abdomen. He opened his eyes and looked down.

The Grounder was staring right at him, holding a dagger to Bellamy’s stomach. Their eyes clung to each other upside down as Bellamy froze, still leaning over him.

“Maybe some other night, huh?” whispered the Grounder, pushing the blade in just a little more, until it hurt. Bellamy swallowed. “Dax,” the leader murmured, voice calm, quiet even. The other Grounder didn’t stir. _“Dax,”_ the leader repeated.

The leader’s eyes, blue as the sea even in firelight, held onto Bellamy’s stare until he was jerked away by the collar and slammed against the ground, Dax’s sword at his throat.

“He got Mbege.”

The leader untangled himself from his cape and slid his dagger back into the holster at his thigh, approaching the body of the guard Bellamy’d killed. He kneeled and held the guard’s face gently, stroking his bloody cheek. “Yu gonplei ste odon,” he whispered.

For a moment, Bellamy almost felt… guilty. The sensation turned to fear as the leader turned on him, expression icy.

“Jus drein jus daun,” Dax said, sure of himself and giving a hard nod. The leader broke his stare away to turn back to the body of Mbege.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.”

“You said it yourself, Heda, we don’t need him! You’re going to let him get away with this?”

‘Heda’ held up a hand to silence Dax. “He’ll pay,” he said. “Just not tonight.”

The three of them lied awake until dawn paled the sky, and Bellamy’s heart never stopped beating like it might burst forth from his chest.

Next time, he’d be faster.

His heels were bleeding inside his boots, blistering bigger and deeper as he walked, and walked, and walked. He’d been looking into the ass of a horse for hours. He was sore, he was weak, he was tired— His stomach growled loudly, and the leader turned around on his mare to glare at him.

“He’s hungry. Shut him up.”

“Finally,” said Dax, jumping off of his horse to raise a hand to Bellamy, who flinched back just as the leader yanked his mare to a stop.

“As in _feed _him, moron.”

Dax frowned, but obediently fished a roll out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Bellamy, who caught it with bound hands and eyed it suspiciously as Dax mounted his horse. He looked up from the bread to find the leader still staring.

“Water too.”

The other Grounder’s shoulders slumped as he swung off of his horse again and shoved a canteen into Bellamy’s chest, then remounted. The tattooed boy continued looking, searching Bellamy’s form.

“Should I massage his shoulders, Heda?”

“Shut up, Dax,” said the leader, whipping his reins and resuming their trek.

It took Bellamy an hour and a half to take a bite of the roll, and two hours to sip from the canteen. He didn’t_ feel_ as if he’d been poisoned, but if he had, maybe it was best to get it over with before they made it to whatever brutal fate awaited him.

At sunset they passed through a set of heavily guarded gates, and Bellamy, though dead on his raw feet, was awestruck by the sprawling city before him that reminded him of so many empires. Orange brick and clay had been molded into endless rows of homes and barns and workshops and pubs, hulking storage buildings and a cylindrical tower that brushed the clouds above.

Bellamy was untied and held by the end of his rope as stable boys led the horses away, and the leader met a blonde woman who rushed out of the busy street to greet him.

“Hey, Clarke,” he said, as they clutched each other’s wrists, forming a firm line between them with their arms. A Grounder hug, maybe.

“How’d it go? And who’s the… _Skyperson?”_

The leader’s smile faltered, then. “He’s a prisoner. Look, I need you to send Mbege’s family a message and get a pyre started in the courtyard. I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s the message?” said the woman, Clarke, looking uneasy. The other Grounder shifted to the left, revealing the body of the Mbege, wrapped up in his red cape. Clarke covered her mouth, eyes wide and sad, and nodded dutifully before making her way into the throng of the street.

“Dax, take the prisoner to the lower floor. Tell the guards he’s to be isolated. Commander’s orders.”

“Yes, Heda.”  


The back of the Commander’s head as he stared empty-eyed into the street was the last thing Bellamy saw before he himself disappeared in the crowd, and then the darkness of the looming tower.


	3. of the mystery man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you don't know how lucky you are — keaton henson
> 
> [chapter cw // references to sex]

“Louwoda Kliron has a complaint about Yugleda’s farms getting too close to the border, and Trikru is still having issues with Azgedan merchants passing through their territory—“

Murphy thumped his head against the table, wrinkling one of the many pages spread out over the wooden surface. Clarke snatched it out from under him, smoothing its wrinkles out. “I know you think their complaints are stupid, but this is—“

“Part of the job,” Murphy interrupted, making the Flamekeeper roll her eyes in tandem. “Yeah, yeah. So I’ve heard. Send a damn mediator to help Louwoda Kliron and Yugleda mark their borders and another to tell Trikru to suck it up and make a designated path for the merchants if they have to.”

“Trikru won’t like that,” she suggested, looking wary of his answer.

Murphy tossed both sheets of papyrus over his shoulder. “Too bad. Azgeda is part of the coalition now, even if we all hate them, so Trikru’s territory is accessible to them the same way it is for everybody else.”

Clarke frowned, fetching the papers from the floor and rolling them up neatly. _“I _know that.” She paused her shuffling and stacking, and sighed. “Maybe we should call it a day. Yesterday was hard for everyone, and you have a meeting with the ambassadors tomorrow and something tells me you’re going to need all of the patience Pramheda so _generously_ bestowed upon you.”

Murphy gave her a sneer, going to flick his cape out of the way and brushing air. A vision of Mbege’s body wrapped up in red cloth flickered past his eyes, and he shook his head, pushing his chair in.

“Fine. I need to check on the prisoner anyway.”

“Do you _really?”_

_“Yes,”_ Murphy snapped. “He might tell us something useful about the Skypeople.”

“Or he might just make you cry,” said Clarke, tucking her papers under her arm. “He’s kind of mean.”

“I’m meaner,” Murphy replied, and then did a double-take. “You went to see him?”

“I was curious. He spat at me and told me to… go_ float _myself? I don’t think you’re going to get anything out of him.”

Murphy shrugged his shoulders “It’s worth a shot.”

“Well, keep your distance,” Clarke suggested, expression twisting with disgust. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Murphy nodded. “Dismissed.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He grinned as he and Clarke went their own ways, and then felt his mood sink as he wound his way down the long staircase. Halfway, he remembered himself, and turned to go back up and slip into the kitchens.

“Heda!” one of the cooks greeted, bowing deeply and wiping flour from her cheek. “Dinner’s not for half an hour, but if you’re hungry now—“

“Actually, you wouldn’t have anything I could bring to one of the prisoners, would you?”

“Well, we might have had an incident with the soup. It might not turn out inedible, but it’s not gonna taste great.”

“Perfect,” Murphy answered. 

After he took the bowl she prepared, he turned on his heel to make his way down to the tower’s dungeon. Very, very carefully.

“Heda,” said the guard on duty as he emerged from the dark stairwell into the gray, torch-lit room. A few particularly nasty criminals awaiting execution rattled their chains at the sight of him, but soon quieted down as a guard whacked the wall by one of their heads with the hilt of his sword and demanded silence.

The Skyperson was tucked away in a dark corner, far from the others. His bloodied socks and boots were kicked off and had evidently been moved out of his reach so he couldn’t commit any boot or sock-related attacks. Unlike the others, his chains did not jingle in interest of the Commander nor the smell of food.

Murphy kneeled to set the bowl of soup within his reach, shaking out his hand as he drew away, his palm having turned pink. “Careful, it’s hot.”

The prisoner gave a huff of a laugh at that, and Murphy instantly felt stupid. He probably shouldn’t warn prisoners that their soup was hot, and judging by the stares of the guard and the other criminals, he supposed he probably shouldn’t hand-deliver said soup to the prisoners either.

He stayed composed, though he felt his brows knit together and disturb the bruise between them. “You’re not headed straight to execution like these people— not yet anyway— so you better eat. It’s not great soup.”

The Skyperson tilted his head up, peering at Murphy with tiredness etched into his features. “So that's your plan? You're gonna torture me with subpar soup? You spear my friends for no reason, and I kill one of your own and what I get is fucking _soup?” _He kicked the bowl away, spilling it over Murphy’s boots.

And wow, Murphy did _not _like this guy.

“If you want to get speared too, that can be arranged,” Murphy drawled, rising to his full height. “But first, you’re gonna give us some answers.”

“It’s gonna take some _really_ shitty soup for that,” the Skyperson joked, rolling his eyes.

**_“Do you dare to let him speak to you like that?"_** said Sheidheda.**_ "He is making you look _weak!"**

Murphy swept in and grabbed the Skyperson by the throat, holding his head against the wall. The other criminals rattled their chains and chattered with excitement as the Skyperson grabbed Murphy’s wrist and dug his fingernails into Murphy’s skin.

“Heda,” the guard said anxiously from close behind him, a hand on his scabbard. Murphy ignored him, fighting the Skyperson’s one free arm off of him. They struggled against each other fruitlessly for a few seconds too long. 

The Skyperson, admittedly, was stronger than him, but Murphy had two free hands and hadn’t lost nearly as much blood in the last forty-two hours. At last, he pinned the Skyperson’s arm against the wall on the other side of his head.

“I could have let you be tortured. I could let every person in this city take a knife to your skin and they’d be glad to do it,” Murphy spat. “I could kill you myself right here. Keep playing games.”

“Then do it,” said the man, looking at Murphy darkly. “Kill me.”

** _“Do it. He's useless."_**

Murphy clenched his jaw, tightening his grip on the Skyperson’s neck until he gave a small gasp and, unwillingly, his eyes began to water. 

He watched a tear escape from the man’s eye and felt it roll over his own knuckles, and saw the true color of the Skyperson’s skin as a line of blood and dirt was washed away from his face.

Murphy’s grip loosened then as he noticed the open wound beneath the man’s eye, the slashes crisscrossing his chest and arms, the torn and blistered skin on his bloody feet. Murphy looked up again, and the man’s chestnut eyes were narrowed in embarrassment and frustration, shining. 

He wasn’t a hardened and experienced killer, or some soulless thing. He was hardly more than a boy, and couldn’t have been much older than Murphy.

Murphy loosened his grip and removed his fingers from the prisoner’s throat one by one, feeling his heart sink.  This was not how he wanted to do things under his command. This _was not _how they would do things under his command.

He stood, backing away as the Skyperson reached for his throat and narrowed his wet eyes at Murphy, so full of hate.

The chatter had died, and the dungeon was silent as Murphy took his leave, stopping in the doorway with his back to the prisoners.

“Put the Skyperson in a room. The guest room on the top floor.”

“Heda—“ the guard began, trying to reason with Murphy.

“He’s not a criminal. He killed Mbege out of self-defense. Put him in a room. Keep the restraints on, lock the door. I want two guards posted outside.”

With that, he made his way to the top of the stairs, sat outside long enough to stop his hands from shaking, and stepped into the dining room.

Clarke had already eaten judging by the servant taking her empty plate away, and Murphy’s food was growing cold on the table. He weaved around the long table, slipped quietly into the hall, and quieter still into his bedroom.

Plunging his hands into the basin on the dresser, he furiously wiped away his eye black in the mirror, leaving his cheeks and eyes tinged red. He shucked his outer layer and the Commander’s shoulder-piece off, the chunk of armor wanting of a cape since it had burned with Mbege. After he was left in just his dark pants and tunic, he threw his cloak over himself and pulled the hood over his eyes.

Another trip down the long staircase led him outside, and Murphy pushed and weaved through the nightlife in the streets until he was stood in front of a building that always felt smaller on the inside than it looked from the outside, rosy streamers and chains of flowers dangling from the eaves, whispering.

Murphy stepped inside quickly, forgoing niceties and keeping his hood down as he stepped up to the owner’s table. The big, stocky woman, her hair done up in a massive pile of braids, looked up from sorting her coins and gave a winner’s smile.

“Ah, the Mystery Man returns,” she said mystically. “They’ll be scrapping like wild dogs over you after the way you paid last time. Looking for company again tonight, darling?”

Murphy rolled his eyes under his hood. “No, just browsing.”

The brothel owner merely tilted her head, waiting for a real answer. Murphy sighed. “Yes. Just for a little while.”

“Honey, you can stay as long as you want. Nobody here’s complaining and Pramheda knows you can afford it. Got a certain type of company in mind?”

Murphy shook his head, wanting to get out of the main room already and nearly jumping out of his skin as the door rattled and another guest lined up behind him. To be discovered here would be considered weakness, and to be discovered damn near anywhere without guards was a death sentence.

The owner disappeared behind a curtain briefly, and when she took her seat at the table again a tall, veiled woman followed, taking Murphy by the hand.

She led him to a private room, stacked high with furs and pillows, and guided him to the bed. She was quiet, and Murphy lied still underneath her wandering hands.

“Don’t be nervous,” she said softly. “We can do whatever you want.”

“I’m not nervous,” he answered, shifting anxiously as she reached under his shirt and smoothed her cold hand over his abdomen. 

“Something’s bothering you,” she whispered, and Murphy frowned. He came here to do the exact opposite of dealing with his feelings.

“I just— it’s nothing. Let’s just do this.”

“I’m not in a hurry if you’re not,” she whispered in his ear, still feeling him up even as he lied unmoving and stared at the ceiling. 

**_“Talk,” _**said Bekka. **_“Let the weight go."_**

Eventually Murphy huffed, kicking against the duvet and shoving himself up into the pillows.

“I feel like I keep screwing up,” he admitted, feeling as if any minute, laser beams might shoot from his eyes and drill holes through the roof.

She nodded slowly, encouragingly, and Murphy let out a breath he’d been holding. “I’ve got an... _important_ job, and I feel like it’s getting to my head, you know? The demands. The power.”

She walked her fingers up Murphy’s chest as he spoke, humming in understanding. “They’re always watching my every move, or they’re in my _head, _wanting me to be _stronger _or wanting me to be more_ patient._ Everyone has their own ideas about what I should be doing. I know they think I’m not cut out for this even if I’m ‘_chosen.’_ If that bullshit's even real.”

She nodded again, pushing back his hood to run her fingers through his hair. Murphy was too busy talking to notice. 

“I don’t even know if I wanted this job. All the responsibility. I didn’t really have a choice. I feel like… I feel like my life ended before it even got started.” His voice trembled, and the woman quickly moved her free hand from under his shirt to stroke his cheek, soothing. 

“I think I really fucked up today,” he said quietly, closing his eyes as she slipped an arm under him and shifted closer, tucking his head under her chin as if he were a child. “Sometimes I think I don't know who I am anymore."

**_“You are the Commander, act like it. This is pathetic,” _**Sheidheda snapped.

Murphy hadn’t slept well the night before, or at all the night before that, and the hand in his hair moved to its own lullaby. He murmured a little while longer, sometimes revealing too much and sometimes saying nothing of substance; complaining about Clarke’s patronizing tone and Dax questioning his decisions, Mbege’s family demanding the Skyperson’s head and the Skyperson kicking soup onto his boots. He’d never talked so much in his life, but something had come to a head, watching a boy suffer under Murphy’s hand like Murphy had suffered under others'.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have to listen to me talk.”

“I’m not going to turn my nose up at a paid break,” she answered quietly, smoothing his brows down with her thumb, tracing the line of his nose from the bruise to end.

Soon enough his thoughts, and those of others, went quiet, and the bright lights and colors of the world faded.

“Rest easy,” the woman whispered, her finger following his tattoo. “I won’t tell anyone the Commander spends his lonely nights with us.”

Slipping into a dreamworld that he hoped would be nice, Murphy had no choice but to believe her.

**_“Idiot,” _**muttered Sheidheda.


	4. of the pillow with the tassels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> call me in the afternoon — half moon run
> 
> [chapter cw // suffocation, violence, blood]

Bellamy had woken up to some unpleasant things during his time in the woods. Two-headed animals snuffling around in his bag, sudden downpours of rain, bugs crawling into their orifices of choice but never of Bellamy's. It was rare that he ever slept in long, but on that morning the afternoon sun took her time rousing him, and a warm, fur blanket cradled his aching body. It didn't hurt that his head was buried in a number of huge pillows, one of which was very fancy, and had tassels. 

Despite the fancy pillows or maybe because of them, he didn’t remember deciding to fall asleep after he’d been inexplicably moved from the dungeon to a bedroom. And maybe he would have woken peacefully, if it hadn’t been for the sound of the bedroom-prison door slamming shut so hard that Bellamy’s head flew up from the pillow like he’d been possessed.

A hooded figure was pressed against the inside of the door, their plain clothes wrinkled and askew. “Anyone come by here this morning?”

Bellamy shook his head slowly, narrowing his eyes at that voice. The Commander shoved his hood back, revealing his bare face and his brown hair in disarray. “If anyone asks, I was here interrogating you all morning. All night, too, actually.”

Bellamy raised a brow.

“That’s an _order, _prisoner,” he demanded, and then hunched over to hold his knees as if he’d just sprinted up the never-ending staircase. Bellamy guessed the Commander had had an interesting night.

The moment he realized the door was unlocked, he guessed the Commander was about to have an interesting afternoon, too.

He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, which ended up being the pillow with the tassels, leapt off of the bed, and charged.

The Commander looked up and sighed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groaned, reaching for the scabbard at his thigh. Bellamy reached him quicker, shoving the pillow over the Commander’s face and driving him into the corner, forcing him down, down, down.

He fought back from his crumpled position on the floor, grappling with his holster at an awkward angle and trying to pull the pillow away from his face like his life depended on it, and it did. Bellamy fought harder, gritting his teeth and _pushing._

The boy slumped sooner than Bellamy thought he would, his pale hands slipping away, knuckles brushing the planks underneath them. Bellamy flung the pillow to the side and made sure to finish the job, grabbing his throat and intending to squeeze, just like the Commander had done to him.

He faltered. The Commander was young. The Commander had spared Bellamy. 

The boy’s shiny eyelids fluttered, face pink and splotchy from suffocation. Bellamy blinked, his hand slipping down, loose at the base of the Commander’s throat.

Then his leg caught fire.

Bellamy shouted and fell back, kicked himself away along the floor with the leg that wasn’t making his vision go white. He gathered his senses just long enough to pick his head up and reach for the ornate hilt of a blade sticking out of his thigh. Before he could wrap his hand around it, the Commander was on him, yanking it out first. Bellamy tilted his head back and screamed.

Unflinching, the Commander stood on Bellamy’s arm with a boot and aimed the bloodied blade at him, his chest heaving. He’d faked it. His electric stare stayed unblinking on Bellamy as a guard rushed in, summoned by Bellamy’s shout.

“Get the healer,” said the Commander. The familiar guard hesitated, looking as if he’d rather let Bellamy bleed out on the floor. “Now, Dax.”

The other guard on duty stood in the doorway, looking confused as the Commander kneeled beside a panting Bellamy and removed his cloak. “Should I restrain him, Heda?” The Commander folded up the corner of his cloak and pressed down on Bellamy’s wound, who grit his teeth and arched up against the floor.

“It’s fine. I think he’s done,” he answered, giving Bellamy a pointed look as he added another hand to the cloth stanching his bleeding. Bellamy swallowed, rolling his head against the floor, clenching his fists at his sides.

“I’m not,” he ground out. “I’m not done. I’ll never stop fighting.”

The Commander looked at him as if he were pathetic, blabbering nonsense in his state of delirium. “Good thing I’ve got nothing better to do.”

The blonde woman, Clarke, rushed in then with an older woman at her side, and they began to furiously unpack supplies as Dax and the guard who’d gone to get help drew their swords on Bellamy, looming over him, a cold kind of loyal fury in their faces.

The Commander, however, looked as bored as ever as he rose to his feet and left the room without a word.

“It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed you yet,” murmured Clarke, passing instruments to the other woman, who worked quickly and silently.

“Do you speak against your Commander?” Dax snapped, jutting his square chin out at Clarke, who simply shook her head like the whole world was a disappointment to her.

Bellamy knew the feeling.

He spent the rest of his day in the bay window, watching the sun set over the bustling capital. His leg ached with a ferocity like nothing Bellamy had ever felt.

The Commander, done up again in his eyeliner and a new cape and looking much more like King of the Grounders than he had that afternoon, entered just as the violet eve pulled her curtain over the sky. 

A guard stood on one side of the door, watching Bellamy like a hawk, and the Commander held the door open for a servant who left a pile of clothes and a dinner plate on the dresser. The young servant bowed as he left, and the Commander nodded in return, flicking his hand to dismiss the guard as well.

He was cocky. Bellamy didn’t like that.

He went out for a moment, and then returned hunched over, pushing a large, wide metal tub across the floor. It sloshed water over its edges, and the Commander put a foot out and shoved it the rest of the way into the room.

Bellamy turned away just as the Commander looked over at him, and felt his presence lingering.

“Hope you aren’t waiting for a thank you,” he snapped.

“Just wanted to hear your sweet nothings.”

Bellamy clenched his jaw. He thought he was funny. Bellamy didn’t like that either.

“What do you _want?_ Why are you keeping me here? Are you gonna kill me, or are you gonna put me up in your little hotel and bring me soup every night?”

“Actually, it’s chicken and potatoes,” he said, glancing over at the plate. “And I’m still deciding, so you really ought to play nice.” The Commander leaned on the dresser as if they were friends having a laugh. “But that doesn’t really seem like your style.”

No, it wasn’t.

Bellamy reached for the unlit oil lamp on the bedside table and threw it as hard as he could. But the Commander was gone, and the lamp shattered against the wall.

He let an hour pass, and then he bathed in the basin, scrubbing the dirt and blood from his skin. He let a half hour pass, and then he ate the chicken and potatoes, wolfing it down. He let fifteen minutes pass, and changed into the Grounder clothes: a long-sleeved gray shirt with intricate seams, a faded, blue tunic vest, and a pair of black pants. (They were familiar, an echo of Bellamy’s own ruined clothes, as if someone had tried to replace them as closely as they could.) He let five minutes pass, and slipped under the thick fur on the bed.

He let one minute pass and closed his eyes, clean, fed, and warm.

Another hour passed, and the Commander poked his head inside, nodded to no one in particular, and slipped out again.

If Bellamy had been awake, he would’ve gotten him with the candlestick.


	5. of the old motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every breath you take (re:imagined) — denmark + winter
> 
> [chapter cw // threatened violence]

Azgeda always took too much.

Their ambassador was constantly in the tower, always asking for something new or pestering Murphy about the old, still insisting on whatever they'd been denied. Today, a scheduled ambassador's meeting, was no different, as the Ice Nation ambassador took up everyone else's time making endless appeals for his own nation.

“Our loyalty to the coalition relies on stability. We need reassurance that the Skypeople won’t interfere with our trade with Trikru,” said the Ice Nation ambassador, eyebrows jumping with arrogance.

Murphy couldn’t stand this old motherfucker. He’d been expecting this, and waved a hand at Dax who stood by the door with his staff. “Bring him in.”

He tugged the Skyperson inside, gagged and bound, and pushed him down to his knees perpendicular to the throne where all the ambassadors could see him.

The man kept his chin up, staring some of the most powerful men and women in the coalition right in the eye. Murphy smirked, and hoped it looked like he was showing off. But really the fiery Skyperson was starting to grow on him, in the same way that people liked to watch explosions.

“We have their leader,” Murphy lied, “And he’s going to give us all the information we need,” he lied again. “Their numbers are small, their wall is penetrable, and they have rudimentary weapons. There won’t be an attack on Trikru and if there is, it’ll hardly leave a dent. So you tell the Queen not to worry her frosty little head about the Skypeople. It’s handled.”

The ambassador opened his mouth as if to argue something, as usual, and then snapped it closed. “Onto your next motion,” Murphy sighed. There was always a next motion.

“A territory lines appeal. Boudalon Kru has a surplus of unused land, there is no reason why a neighboring clan shouldn’t be able to expand a growing city onto that land.”

Murphy pinched the bridge of his nose. This again. “Let’s not beat around the bush and pretend this is a hypothetical. It’s not your land to take.”

The Ice Nation ambassador stood from his chair and walked to the middle of the throne room to implore Murphy. “It’s a waste of resources.”

“Your imperialism isn’t worth damaging clan relationships. Azgeda needs to keep its hands to itself. Next appeal, Fleimkepa.”

Clarke hurried to unroll another scroll, looking hopeful about how fast the meeting was moving along.

“You cannot dismiss all of the Queen’s appeals because of your _bias,” _the ambassador argued, pointing a wrinkled finger at Murphy.

“Yes,” Murphy answered, “I can, actually. Especially if all of her appeals are fucking stupid.”

Clarke sighed, rolling her scroll back up. 

The elder ambassador’s face contorted with rage at Murphy’s comment, and he stepped forward, advancing on Murphy and the few steps up to the throne. Murphy stood from his throne and tilted his head up to meet the taller elder’s eyes, who grabbed Murphy by the back of his neck as if he were a belligerent child trying to run off in a crowd. 

Several other ambassadors gasped at the transgression, and Murphy held up a dismissive hand as his guards took a step forward.

“You are a foul-mouthed, spoiled little boy,” the ambassador spat. “You are _not_ fit to lead Kongeda.”

**_“Kill him,”_** whispered Sheidheda. **_“Kill him, kill him, kill him.”_**

“Ambassador Tawa,” Murphy said, breathing through his nose. “Let’s take a walk.” As the ambassador’s hand loosened around the back of Murphy’s neck, Murphy reached up and smacked it away.

He walked out to the balcony overlooking the city, and placed a hand on one of the thick furs on the ambassador’s back, comforting, condescending.

“I’ve been in charge of the coalition for nine years. There have been no wars between clans, no uprisings, no streets running red with blood. But we can change that.”

Then Murphy curled his fist in the ambassador’s fur cloak, yanked him closer to the balcony’s stone railing, and bent him over it backwards.

**_“Yes,” _**crowed Sheidheda.

_“Heda!”_ someone shouted from inside, as the other ambassadors rushed out to the balcony. Clarke stayed inside, massaging her temples, and Murphy smiled, turning it on the ambassador.

He dangled upside down, toes only just brushing the balcony floor. “Heda, please. Forgive me.”

“Let me think about it,” Murphy said, and gave him a little jerk. Chatter broke out on the street far below, gasps and whispers and even cheers. “Oops,” Murphy teased. “Hands are slippery from all my fancy lotions for spoiled little boys.”

“I meant no disrespect, Heda, truly,” the ambassador pleaded, voice quaking. Murphy frowned, considering him.

“You have an interesting way of showing respect, Ambassador Tawa. Maybe next time you’re questioning my authority you’ll try and be more of an asshole.” He yanked the ambassador off of the railing and flung him towards the exterior doors, where the other ambassadors moved away from him as if he were tainted. “Now all of you get the hell out of my tower,” Murphy snapped. “We’re done for today.”

**_“Quite the show, Murphy,”_** Bekka praised him, unusually mischievous, and that rare feeling of warmth and pride overcame Murphy, briefly, before fading away again.

The ambassadors filtered out like there were fires under their asses, abandoning their scrolls on the table for the Flamekeeper to deal with. Once the doors to the throne room had closed, Clarke turned on Murphy.

“Do you have any idea what you just _did?”_

“Spare me, Clarke,” Murphy sighed, collapsing in his throne and leaning on his hand, trying to let his irritation simmer. 

“You_ know_ Azgeda’s always one push away from seceding and declaring war again. You can’t just— just—“

“They’d be stupid to declare war and they know it,” Murphy countered. “All twelve clans would turn on them and they’re already losing almost as many citizens to the Mountain as Trikru is.”

“Do they_ seem_ rational to you?!”

“Let ‘em retaliate,” Murphy decided, to which Clarke sunk down on the steps near the Skyperson and dropped her head to her knees. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to wipe them out since we were kids.”

“They’re still a threat while weak, and even if they weren’t, what happened to keeping the peace?” Clarke asked, voice muffled.

Murphy shrugged. “I think peace is overrated.”

The Skyperson began to hum against his gag at that, and Clarke blindly reached out to pull it from his mouth before dropping her arm again in defeat.

“If you’re working on a peace initiative, why don’t you leave my people alone?”

Murphy peered over to look at him. He seemed to be doing better. Murphy hoped that didn’t mean he was going to start complaining more.

“Your people aren’t a clan.”

“Why not? What makes a clan? Do you really have all that much in common with— with— Assgeddon?”

Clarke huffed out a laugh into her knees.

“Your people lost the right for me to consider them a clan when they started hunting and building on Trikru territory.”

“That’s not fair,” the Skyperson argued. “We crash-landed! You’re just gonna wipe us out for not knowing where we were? Give us a chance to move out of their territory.”  


“I think I’ve given you enough chances, not giving you up to the family of the man you killed, for one."

“You think you’re doing me a favor? You haven’t given me up because you_ need _me.” He was glaring at Murphy, but lowered his narrowed eyes in discomfort as Murphy gazed back at him, annoyance likely evident on his face.

“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Murphy replied, and leaned over the arm of his throne to tilt the other boy’s head up with a finger underneath his chin. “But I don’t need you. I was _lying_ to the ambassadors. I thought you’d be smart enough to figure that out.” The boy was uncharacteristically still, watching Murphy with those dark eyes and working his jaw.

Then he spat.

Dax was on him before either of them could blink, dragging the Skyperson roughly away as he jerked against the guard and glared daggers at Murphy.

“Guess you should’ve been smart enough to figure that out,” Clarke murmured as the doors rattled closed behind Dax and the Skyperson.

Murphy wiped the spit from his cheek and reached out to rub it onto Clarke’s hair, who swatted furiously at him.

“Why are you even keeping him around?” she asked, stroking her mussed hair back down. “Just to toy with him because you’re bored?”

Murphy’s stomach stirred like he’d been caught out, but he didn’t know why. That wasn’t the reason he was keeping the Skyperson at all. Why did everyone think he was so shallow?

“Look,” Clarke sighed, noticing his twisted-up expression. “I’m not… I’m not questioning you—“

“You so are.”

“But it’s dangerous to have an enemy in our walls if you don’t plan to do anything with him. I mean, Murphy, you put him in the room right next to yours. He’s already tried to kill you, what? Three times now? I just think you’re taking an unnecessary risk.”

“You know what’s an unnecessary risk? Letting an enemy outside of our walls who knows how to get to the throne room, knows what I look like and how I fight, and knows what the clans are up against right now. He’s staying here.”

“So he knows more about us than we know about him. Whose fault is that?”

**_“Yours,” _**answered Sheidheda.

Murphy bristled, straightening up. “You know what, Clarke? I’m the Commander, so why don’t you just—”

“Murphy, please. Don’t be like that. Not with me. I’m just trying to help.”  


“Everyone’s always trying to _help _me. Why can’t you just trust me?”

“Because I don’t _understand_ you!” she shouted, throwing her arms out. “None of us do! You’ve got everyone prepared for war but won’t let them attack nor will you command them to stand down. You got Azgeda into the coalition but keep poking the bear like you want them to turn on us. You’ve got a Skyperson who killed one of your own staying in your guest bedroom! Your people are losing _faith _in you, Murphy.”

Murphy clenched his jaw, looking down at the old wood of his throne underneath his hand. “Go,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Go away.”

He knew he was being childish. He didn’t care.

The Flamekeeper came closer, holding out a tentative hand. “Murphy…”

**_“Maybe you’re being unfair,”_** said Bekka.

**_“For once, I agree with the blonde bitch,”_** added Sheidheda.

**_“You _have_ been a bit flip-floppy,”_** Hinko interjected.

Flint jumped in, usually quiet. **_“I think it’s time to start making some decisions, Heda.”_**

He punched both sides of his head, and dug his fists into his temples. _“Fine!_ I’ll let him go. And if everyone wants to go to war so badly, we’ll go to war. Happy?”

“That’s— You know that’s not what I meant,” Clarke murmured, reaching for his shoulder. Murphy jerked away from her and stood. “I just meant you needed to make a decision—“

Murphy walked to the door. “I just did,” he answered, and slammed it behind him.

When Murphy brought the prisoner his dinner that evening, the Skyperson was fast asleep, a glass shard from the broken oil lamp still cradled in his limp hand.

Murphy left the plate on the dresser and, against his better judgement, came closer. It was a colder night than usual, and the curled up Skyperson had forgone using the fur. Murphy carefully pulled it up to his waist, and after a beat, reached out again to bring it a little higher.

The Skyperson hadn’t done anything wrong, really. He was just a boy on his own that Murphy and his men had captured, and he’d killed Mbege in an attempt to escape. Murphy had been there, when he was so young that the colors of his memories still dripped and blurred together.

The Skyperson was hardly even a Skyperson, with nothing but loyalty tying him to them. Really, he was all alone in the world.

And suddenly, Murphy understood why he’d been keeping him here.

His freckled face was slack and calm with sleep instead of contorted in rage, and his newly-washed hair left loose curls brushing his forehead and ears. Murphy, strangely, wanted to reach out and touch him.

He blinked, coming back to himself, and moved to carefully slip the glass shard from the boy’s hand, which miraculously hadn’t cut either of them yet. Then Murphy made the mistake of touching the boy’s hand to unfurl it fully, to ensure he wouldn’t cut the Skyperson as he took the glass away.

A hand darted out in a flash and grabbed onto Murphy’s wrist, who looked up from the shard and found dark brown eyes catching flame at the sight of his own. Then the Skyperson looked down and noticed the fur pulled over him, and up again to find a full plate on the dresser.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m taking your weapon. Thought it was obvious.”

“No,” the Skyperson snapped. “Why are you being nice to me? Why is the big bad Commander hand-delivering hot meals and tucking me into bed? What _game_ are you playing at? Because it’s not gonna work.”

Murphy winced as his the Skyperson’s grip on wrist tightened. “Would it kill you to just say thank you?”

The Skyperson shifted into a sitting position, knees bracketing Murphy’s legs, and slowly brought one hand to the back of his neck and the glass shard to the front of it. The jagged edge barely brushed Murphy’s skin.

“I could kill you right now. Are you that arrogant that you think I couldn’t?”

Murphy tilted his head up involuntarily, away from the threat. It only served to make the glass feel closer. The Skyperson’s hand felt as if it were burning the back of his neck. 

“I think you’re smart,” Murphy answered. “I think you’ve got food and water. Shelter. Protection from whatever you’re running from. I think I know what it’s like to have nothing, to settle for help from your enemies.”

The Skyperson searched his eyes, and suddenly pressed closer with the glass until its touch was biting. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even know my name.”

“Then tell me,” Murphy ground out.

The boy’s eyes had gone wide as if dazed, as if seen, his grip slipping from the back of Murphy’s neck.

“Bellamy,” he answered, letting it drip free from his lips like honey, slow and quiet. He looked as if he didn’t know why he’d spoken.

Murphy smiled. Their faces were close, Murphy leaning over him, the Skyperson's face tilted up in a morbid, hateful kind of fascination with Murphy.

“Bellamy,” Murphy said, and slowly, either hypnotized or defeated, Bellamy released him. “Goodnight."

Murphy exited quietly, dismissed the guards, and left the door cracked open.

He watched from his balcony as Bellamy made it out of the tower and raced to the edge of Polis, half-running, half-stumbling on all fours. At the barrier he paused, panting, and looked out through a gap in the wall that Murphy had made earlier, having spent his afternoon tearing panels of metal and wood down from it. The wilderness was loud with insects and shadowy with orange evening, promising nothing.

The boy looked up to the sky, clenched his fists, and turned around.

Murphy’s lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile, as Bekka and Hinko cheered inside. 

He was surprised to notice that a third of the smile felt like it belonged to him. Just him.

For a moment, doing the right thing felt easy. Simple.


	6. of the courtyard below bellamy's window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> apocalypse — cigarettes after sex
> 
> [chapter cw // references to child death]

He stayed.

The night previous, he’d walked to the edge of the city, seen the dense woods, where he’d almost certainly be killed or die trying not to be, and thought of camp, where the Ark would land and float him however they saw fit. He didn’t know if he wouldn’t die here in the capital either, but at least there was a chance.

Sitting in the bay window again, looking down on him as he worked with a group of children in the courtyard, he knew who that chance lied with.

Whether Bellamy liked it or not, the Commander, teetering unpredictably between cruel and kind; and this Grounder city, massive and thirsty for his blood, was his only shot at life.

The courtyard below Bellamy’s window was an airy-looking little place, enclosed by green trees and shrubbery, dotted underfoot with flat cobblestone. 

The Commander was leaning on his sword, explaining something to the children sat in a half-moon shape at his feet, cradling their own weapons. A young boy raised his hand and asked a question that made the girl next to him give him a shove, and made the Commander look over his shoulder to grin at Clarke.

Curious, Bellamy tentatively unlatched the window and pushed it open. The sounds of nature and an easy breeze quickly filled his room, tousling his hair and waking him up a bit more. He kept his back carefully to the wall, as the drop wasn’t a short one, and he’d rather not go splat in front of a bunch of doe-eyed ten year-olds.

“No, Mattoks, you don’t need to hug your sparring partner after a match. Not that I was gonna let you spar with Okko again anyway.”

The other kids giggled while the boy blushed and leaned away from the girl next to him, who had pulled her knees up to her chest to hide behind them. “Why not?” the boy protested.

“Because I can tell you keep letting her win so she’ll be nice to you afterward. I know Okko wants a real fight. Go on a little baby date on your own time.”

Bellamy, forgetting himself for a moment, huffed with amusement.

“We are_ not _babies!” another kid shouted, to which the other kids murmured in righteous agreement. The Commander threw a look over his shoulder at Clarke that Bellamy leaned out to see, to no avail.

“If you’re not babies then partner up with someone different from last week and prove it. I want a good fight. Now scatter.” The Commander pointed his sword at the kids and swirled it, encouraging them to split apart and pair up again. It was a seamless transition and not bad motivation either, Bellamy had to give him that.

As the Commander stepped to the edge of the stone terrace to observe the kids, Clarke, who was sat behind him on a low wooden bench, let her gaze wander up the tower. Bellamy straightened up as her sights fell on him, and she reached out to tug on the Commander’s cape.

_“Roz!_ Too hard! Ease up!” he shouted at a child who had just knocked the wind out of their partner, before glancing over his shoulder in acknowledgement of Clarke. Bellamy felt like slithering away from the window as he looked up and cocked his head, and then waved Bellamy down.

Bellamy pointed at himself. “Me?” he mouthed. The Commander nodded, and Bellamy clenched his jaw.

He supposed he had to, and it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to get some air. Plus, he wasn’t really a prisoner anymore. The Commander had dismissed the guards from his door (which Bellamy thought, considering his own track record, was incredibly stupid) and left it unlocked. Without a place to go, Bellamy had yet to leave his wrecked ex-prison bedroom.

Figuring he was no safer up in his room than he would be outside, Bellamy slid off of the shelf of the window, wiggled his feet into his untied boots, and made the trek down the swirling staircase.

After a few twists and turns, he found his way into the courtyard and stood underneath the veranda of the doorway, the wooden door shuddering closed loudly behind him. The Commander gave him little more than a glance before turning his sharp attention to one of the children and their too-wide stance, but Clarke gave him a friendly smile and patted the bench next to her.

He approached cautiously and sat on the edge of it, limiting his rest to one ass cheek. If Clarke minded, she didn’t mention it.

Bellamy followed her gaze out to the stone enclosure filled with fast-moving bodies, the air filled with the sounds of clashing weapons and skin hitting cloth hitting ground hitting skin. 

Bellamy thought it kind of sad that Grounder children were trained to fight from such an early age. But it wasn’t like the Ark had done much better, training children to lie, veiling everything down to how much they had for dinner or else be floated and their family with them.

“Mavis, get out of the flowerbed,” the Commander scolded, quickly approaching a little girl who darted out of the flowers and ran from him. Bellamy’s brows knit together for a moment, concerned, until he noticed she was laughing, and not afraid of the leader in the slightest.

When the Commander caught up to her he spun her around by her collar and tucked a small flower into her hair, which she reached up to touch. “There, you have one. Now focus,” he ordered. Mavis ducked her head, a smile plastered on her face.

“I’ll get you to wear one too, one day, Heda.”

“Fat chance,” answered the Commander, twirling her around by her clothes again and nudging her toward her partner. “Get to work.”

Bellamy wasn’t aware of his smile until Clarke turned to look at him, smiling too. “He actually hates kids,” she said, turning back toward the training session.

“Then why does he train them?”

“He has to. They’re natblidas, the next generation of candidates to ascend the throne after the Commander dies,” she said, leaning forward and placing her chin on her fist. “They’ll have to fight in a conclave. Whoever triumphs will be the new Commander. So he has to make sure they’re ready, and that every candidate has had equal training. So whoever the victor is actually the chosen one, not bogged down by disadvantages or propped up by privilege.”

Bellamy took this in. “The fight… is it—?”

“To the death,” Clarke answered, swallowing tightly. She and the Commander seemed fond of the children. The _natblidas._

Bellamy frowned. “That’s—“

“That’s our way,” Clarke interrupted, voice harsh and defensive. “But Murphy… he takes care of them. Makes sure they have good lives, protects them and their families. After what happened to him…”

Bellamy raised a brow, and Clarke shook her head, smoothing out a wrinkle in her pants and ending the conversation. Bellamy had no choice but to forget it.

He looked out on the battling children again, watching the Commander walk past students and poke them in the ribs or the ear, insisting they learn how to fight past distractions. But mostly he seemed to find it funny when they contorted or squealed.

_Murphy, _Bellamy thought. His name was Murphy. That could come in handy.

“So when Dunns comes in for the leg sweep, you pull back and return it. That’s how they do it in Delfi.”

_“I’m_ Delfikru, not Dunns,” said the other boy.

“Then why are you letting him steal your moves?” Murphy argued. “Did you get what I said?"

“Kind of,” admitted the Delfikru boy. Murphy put his hands on his hips, thoughtful.

“I’ll demonstrate,” he decided, and to Bellamy’s horror, looked across the courtyard, right at him. “Will our esteemed guest please rise?”

Bellamy looked to Clarke, panicked. “He’s gonna let me be near kids? After everything—?”

“Oh, please,” Clarke replied. “These kids would have you on your ass before you so much as looked at them wrong.”

The children, decked out in armor and small swords, had all turned to glare at Bellamy as he cautiously stood and walked slowly to the Commander.

“I don’t want the Skyperson to teach us,” complained the bald-headed boy, Dunns.

“He’s not teaching you, I am. He’s just our practice dummy,” said the Commander, jerking Bellamy in by the elbow. “Give him a whack,” ordered Murphy, and Dunns, confused, gave Bellamy a fairly hard smack on his side.

Bellamy merely looked down at the child, bewildered. “See?” said Murphy. “He’s harmless.” Bellamy shot him a glare, but it worked. The kids came a little closer, inspecting Bellamy like he was some kind of rare species instead of a nuclear weapon.

“Now,” announced the Commander, “Watch and learn.” He grabbed Bellamy by the forearms, holding them up as if they were locked in a struggle. “Try to sweep me,” he demanded. Bellamy complied for lack of other options, attempting to kick Murphy’s leg out from under him.

The Grounder children roared as Murphy quickly snatched his leg away and brought it in again just in time to catch Bellamy’s mid-kick, and sent him crashing to the ground. Bellamy coughed, lying on the cobblestone, his vision crowded by little faces peering down to look at him and laugh.  Bellamy imagined this is what Lexa must have felt like in school on the Ark, when all the other kids used to pick on her.

“Got it?” Murphy asked the boys, who nodded excitedly, eager to try out the new trick. “Now everybody help the big lug get back up.”

“I don’t need help,” Bellamy muttered, feeling ten years-old himself. The kids didn’t seem to eager to comply either, hesitating.

“He is the enemy, Heda,” said one very serious-looking little girl, one of the only kids wearing her own clumsy warpaint.

“No, he’s an informant. He’s with us. Now help him up, it’s good sportsmanship.”

Commander Murphy seemed like a terrible sport, actually.

The children all obediently reached for him at once, then, and twenty little hands guided Bellamy to a stand. “Thanks,” he muttered, brushing himself off. “Are you done using me as a punching bag?”

“For now,” Murphy answered, looking satisfied. “But don’t get comfortable.”

Bellamy huffed, returning to the bench underneath the tree as regular training resumed. Clarke was grinning when he returned, and as he sat, he noticed that all the children were distracted now, stealing curious glances at Bellamy.

“I think they like you,” she said.

“I think they want my head on a stick,” he replied, trying not to pout about being flattened by the stupid, arrogant Commander and then pitied by him, all in the same breath.

“If Murphy likes you, they’ll like you too.”

“Murphy— the Commander doesn’t _like_ me. We're enemies.”

“Because his people killed some of yours? And you killed one of his? I don’t know what it was like wherever you came from, but welcome to the real world. You’ve attempted to kill him multiple times, and he’s forgiven you. Why can’t you move past blind loyalty?”

Bellamy stared, opening his mouth and closing it again. “And you aren’t loyal to _your _people? To him?”

“Of course I’m loyal, but I can see when it’s time to loosen the restraints and let go of a grudge. Your people gain nothing by you hating him. He trusts you for some reason. _Work _with him.”

Clarke looked at him imploringly, and Bellamy narrowed his eyes. “Why are you trying to help us?”

“Because we don’t need another war on our hands,” she answered, watching Murphy do an intricate dance of swords with one of the girls, moving languidly to show her the steps. “He’s tired and overwhelmed but he can’t seem to stop picking fights. An attack on a bunch of kids is one we need to put back.”

Bellamy considered this. He could join the Grounders, in a way. Save the hundred from the inside. It wasn’t a bad plan. He just wasn’t sure his pride would agree.

He allowed himself to move his entire rear onto the bench, instead of half. If Clarke noticed, again, she made no indication of it.

“You care about him,” Bellamy said, curious but feigning disinterest.

“I’m his Fleimkepa. It’s my job to protect him, advise him. Even if I can’t keep up with him for the life of me and he never takes any of my advice,” she muttered. “He can be a dick.”

“Shocker.”

“But he can be sweet, too,” she said softly, watching Murphy lead one of the girls by her hand over to them. “You’ll see, once you get to know him.”

Bellamy wasn’t sure he wanted to get to know him, even as he stared at the Commander, watching him wrap up the little girl’s injured ankle underneath a nearby tree with a steady, gentle hand.“If he keeps me alive that long,” he murmured.

Clarke glanced at Bellamy, then Murphy, and back at Bellamy, looking as if she wanted to say something. Before she could, the Commander called lunch and prompted the clattering of ten small swords onto the cobblestone. Clarke stood to unpack a large basket that was hidden behind the bench, as two of the kids unfolded a blanket and spread it out over the ground.

“Aw, I hate panther,” Mavis muttered, plopping down and adjusting the flower in her thick curls. Murphy tossed one of the packed meals at her anyway, which she caught with lightning-fast reflexes.

Damn, these kids were scary.

“Mavis, there are orange slices today,” the serious girl with the painted face attempted to comfort from across the blanket, to which Mavis shrugged. 

“They have better oranges in Yujleda,” she muttered, rolling her fruit between her palms. Bellamy had never seen one before, and must have been caught staring. “Skyperson—?” she began, and then waited.

“Bellamy,” he answered.

“Bellamy, want my orange?” she asked tentatively, and the other kids widened their eyes, looking between Bellamy and the girl.

“Uh,” he began, looking to the Commander, who was leaning against the tree, tearing into a chunk of panther meat. He shrugged, so Bellamy carefully left the bench and came closer.

“Sure,” he said, reaching out to take the orange and noticing the way the children parted as if not to touch him. He almost felt hurt, silly as it was. Then one of the boys closest to him patted the blanket.

“You can sit with me, Bellamy,” he said. Slowly, Bellamy sat. “Do you want my orange too?”

“Oh, no, I’m okay, really,” he said, holding up his hands. “I don’t think my stomach’ll be used to one orange, let alone two.” 

“What do you mean ‘used to’?” asked Dunns. Ten pairs of eyes were hanging on Bellamy like he was the strangest thing they’d ever seen. They’d probably never had a picnic with the enemy before.

“They didn’t have any oranges in space. I’ve, uh, never had one.”

He leaned back as all of the kids began talking over each other at once, shoving their snacks in his face. He looked to Murphy and Clarke over by the tree for help, but they only grinned, amused to no end by his bombardment. There was a gleam in Clarke’s eyes, though, that suggested something beautiful was happening. 

Bellamy decided he’d try to see it that way, too. 

He was good with kids, after all. He’d raised Octavia, who got her stimulation and entertainment by whatever creative means Bellamy could come up with. What was entertaining ten more?

“Will one of you guys show me how to open it?” he asked, and the kids jumped at the chance to demonstrate. Peeling it open with his thumbnail, as advised, Bellamy removed an orange slice and inspected its curved shape. He stuck it in front of his teeth, giving himself an orange smile.

“Oh!” shouted one of the boys, thrilled by the gag. They all rushed to shove orange slices in their mouth and grin at one another, giggling madly, and in their distraction Bellamy was allowed a moment to eat quietly and miss his little sister.

The chatter and laughter eventually died down as the kids got back to eating, hungry from a long morning of training. The air was warm, the food was good, and Bellamy smiled as he watched a few maple seeds spin down onto the blanket, which the kids leaped at to play with. Each time they spun one, they looked to Bellamy to make sure he was watching and properly fascinated.

“Heda,” the serious girl said suddenly, twisting to look over her shoulder, “We should bring the Skypeople oranges.”

Commander Murphy blinked at that, a handful of food stuck in midair halfway to his mouth. Clarke had clasped her hands, bringing them up to her chin in teary-eyed pleasure.

“I’ll think about it,” Murphy answered, chancing a look at Bellamy, who smiled.

The Commander’s eyes went wide before he ducked his head, shoving the rest of his food in his mouth and glaring at the ground like it had said something terrible to him. Bellamy’s grin lingered as he returned to working at his orange.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like everything might be okay.


	7. of the skyperson's chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coyote — stop light observations
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, graphic violence, murder]

It had been a good day. A really, really good day.

As much as their squeaky little voices grated on Murphy’s nerves, and even if they complained more than he himself did, days with the natblidas were always good.

Then the Skyperson had come down from the tower and made them laugh with orange slices and maple seeds, and Murphy had inched closer than he’d ever meant to inch toward the idea of pardoning the Skypeople. All because of him.

All because of Bellamy, who had looked over his shoulder and _smiled_ at Murphy.

Maybe it was a trap, that smile; or maybe Murphy had done a right thing, a good thing, even. Maybe letting Bellamy stay and make a home here was the only good thing Murphy had ever done.

While Clarke walked the natblidas home, Murphy had made his way back inside the tower, weaving up the stairs toward the bathhouse. Bellamy, after a moment of deliberation, had followed.

Their walk had been quiet so far, enough to count their endless footsteps. Then, gruff and stiff, the Skyperson spoke. “Thanks,” he said, “For letting me meet the kids. It was nice to get outside.”

Murphy grinned over his shoulder, a few steps ahead. “They’re obsessed with you, spaceman. I don’t think you’re getting out of next week’s class. Heard Mattox planning to ask you if you ever had scurvy.”

Bellamy ducked his head and laughed. Murphy’s smile stretched a little wider.

“And you can go outside whenever you want, you know,” Murphy added. “You’re not a prisoner here anymore.”

Bellamy was quiet as they passed through the door of the top floor and began making their way down the hall, considering this. “Don’t really know where I’d go.”

“Well,” Murphy began, “For now, the courtyard’s usually empty. But I could give you a tour of Polis sometime,” he offered, glancing back.

“Oh,” said Bellamy, looking like he wasn’t incredibly interested in such a thing. Whether he was afraid of the city or afraid of Murphy, he didn’t know. “Maybe. Thanks.”

Having reached the door to the private bathhouse, Murphy slipped inside and made to hold the door open before realizing Bellamy had stilled in the hallway.

“Sorry, this is my stop.” He gestured to himself. “Sweaty. From training, you know,” he explained, looking over his shoulder into the dimly-lit room, a large, heated basin carved out in the middle of the floor. “You could… uh— well, you probably don’t want to—“

“That’s okay,” Bellamy interrupted, holding up his hands and looking a little darker in the face. “I’m still pretty clean. I’ll just… head to my room. Try to find something to do.“

“Yeah,” Murphy replied, shaking his head as the Commanders began to stir, sensing his embarrassment. “Yeah, ‘course.”

The idea of not having an excuse to see the Skyperson again until next week’s classes bothered Murphy. He was trying to make Bellamy feel welcome, after all. But the bathhouse wasn’t exactly the kind of place you invited someone who had just recently stopped wanting to kill you.

**_“Dinner,” _**suggested Bekka, voice urgent and strong.

Murphy straightened up. “Before you go,” he said, “I was thinking— how about you join us for dinner tonight? Me and Clarke. Instead of eating in your room.”

Bellamy scratched at his bicep, looking madly uncomfortable. Murphy wanted to cringe, and fought his face from twisting up. He was just trying to be _friendly._

Then, as if remembering something, Bellamy’s high shoulders slackened, and his fidgeting hands migrated to his pockets. “Sure,” he agreed at last, not looking incredibly happy about it. “Why not."

Murphy gave a small smile, nodded quickly, and shut the door in his face.

**_“Pathetic,” _**hissed Sheidheda as Murphy pressed his back to the door and tried to steady his breath.

**_“I thought it was cute,”_** replied Hinko.

Apparently _friendly_ didn’t come very naturally to him.

Murphy shucked off his armor and clothes, and held himself underwater just long enough to feel like he could make himself drown if he really, really wanted to.

Evening came quickly, and Clarke stood in Murphy’s doorway as he tousled his wet hair with a towel, only half-dressed for dinner.

“Don’t you think you might be coming on a little strong?” she asked, and flung his shirt at him as he made grabby hands for it where it was folded over a chair closest to her. He peeled the black cotton top away from his face and pulled it over his head.

“Look, he doesn’t have to show if he doesn’t want to,” Murphy argued, combing his hair back in the mirror. “I’m just trying to be _nice_.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows, choosing not to respond to that and kicking Murphy’s boots across his bedroom, which he wedged his feet into before turning back to meticulously adjust his hair in the mirror.

“Murphy, you look beautiful,” Clarke mocked him. “The kitchen staff will swoon. Now _please _come on, he might already be waiting.”

He sighed as she yanked him away from the dresser and pulled him all the way to the dining room like he’d get lost without her. When they arrived, Bellamy was sat close to the head of the table, face tilted up to look at the wagon wheel of candles hanging overhead.

Murphy took his seat at the head of the table silently, as Clarke sat across from Bellamy and explained where the rustic chandelier had come from, a gift from Trikru.

The Skyperson looked warm under the low light, eyes twinkling as the candles flickered above. He seemed perpetually curious, and inspected everything like the details of the world were far more important than the bigger picture. Murphy wished he had that kind of time.

The cooks brought out their meals: venison, peppers, and onions over rice. Clarke sighed as one of the cooks put a glass of milk by Murphy’s plate, who pulled it close and wrapped his hands around it protectively.

“What’s that?” Bellamy asked, looking overwhelmed by all the food, even if their dinner was meager compared to some of the feasts Murphy held for ambassadors and celebrations. “Is that… milk?”

“The_ Commander_ really likes milk,” Clarke explained. “I think it’s disgusting, at least to have with every meal. It’s for children.”

Bellamy raised a brow at that, giving Murphy a look of amusement as he wiped away his white mustache. “Don’t listen to her,” said Murphy. “She’s just jealous she can’t have any.”

“It makes normal people sick,” Clarke explained. “Because it’s for lambs, not grown men.”

Bellamy stared down at his plate, poking at the food. He went for the venison first, moving the peppers to the side. Clarke elbowed Murphy, jerking her eyes down to her plate._ Stop staring._

Murphy understood why the kids were so fascinated with watching Bellamy eat, and took great pains to keep his eyes to himself.

“How is it, Bellamy?” Clarke asked sweetly, glancing up only briefly, far better at manners and general socializing than Murphy was.

Bellamy looked up, cheeks stuffed with rice and peppers. “Goo’.”

Murphy quickly shoveled food into his own mouth to keep from smiling. It became that much easier when Clarke turned toward Murphy, chewing gingerly on the prongs of her fork.

“Okay,” she said carefully, “I know you don’t like it when I do this at dinner—“

_“Clarke,”_ Murphy whined, spewing a bit of rice.

“—But I think we need to talk about relinquishing some land to Azgeda to make up for Ambassador Tawa inevitably tattling on you to his people and spreading discord.”

Murphy chewed hard, glaring at his plate. “They can’t just have whatever they want and act however they want. I’m in charge,” he muttered. "We're going to war."

Clarke ignored that, and carried on as if he hadn't said it. “Well, they don’t have to be in the coalition. We just need to pacify them with a few acres of land, and maybe they’ll ease up on the territorial appeals.”

“Then we’re reinforcing the idea that they can just get their way by pitching a fit.”

Clarke looked uneasy with what she was about to say. “They’re a powerful nation that’s willing to work with us, not a toddler. They submitted their appeals just like everybody else."

“But Ambassador Tawa—“

“Is a dick,” Bellamy interrupted, finally looking up from his plate. “I think you should demand a new ambassador from… _Azgeda, _to show them you can make demands too, and that they can’t disrespect you like that ambassador did. Then you could give them some mediocre land and set a bunch of restrictions on what they can do with it. Maybe they won’t ask for so much in the future if you make it a whole_ thing.”_

**_“Reestablishing dominance while limiting the appeal process to important requests by making it arduous, while still giving the Ice Nation their incentive to stay in the coalition, ” _**said Bekka, always powerful enough to sit at the forefront of Murphy’s mind, and to speak at length, even without being awakened. **_“He’s combined your ideas with the Flamekeeper’s. It’s brilliant.”_**

Murphy raised his brows, glancing at Clarke, who matched his expression with surprise of her own.

“That’s actually… really helpful,” Clarke said for them both, giving Bellamy a nod. “Thank you, Bellamy.” She kicked Murphy under the table.

“Thanks, Bellamy,” Murphy muttered, pushing his rice around. Why hadn’t he come up with that?

Bellamy blinked a few times as if he’d surprised himself, and then grunted an affirmative before emptying his goblet of water.

A servant came to refill their drinks, Murphy’s first, then Clarke’s. He hesitated before carrying the pitcher around the table to Bellamy, muttering as he filled Bellamy’s cup.

_“Murderer.”_

Murphy frowned, watching Bellamy’s hand stutter in its movements even as his face remained expressionless. “What was that, Peake?”

“Nothing, Heda,” murmured Peake, bringing the pitcher to his chest and stepping back from the table.

“If you have something to say, then say it,” said Murphy, staring at the servant head-on, who avoided his eyes and seemed to burn at the challenge, lifting his shoulders and turning his nose up.

“The enemy has no right to sit at the table with the Commander,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to say so. “He should be killed for what he’s done.”

Murphy stood, and Bellamy awkwardly copied Clarke, who continued eating as if nothing were happening. “Who’s the Commander?”

Peake shifted his jaw. “You, Heda.”  


“So who calls the shots around here?"

“You—"  


“That’s right,” Murphy interrupted him. “Me. Bellamy’s _my_ informant, and he’s under _my_ protection. All _you _needed to do was refill his _fucking_ water.”

Peake sneered. “Just because you’ve done something doesn’t mean it was a good choice.”

Clarke hunched further over her plate as Murphy picked up his knife, making the other two men flinch back, shocked. “You know what? I don’t have to deal with this. Get the fuck out of my tower.”

“Heda—“

“No. I’m the Commander, you spoke out of turn. I’m _sick—_“ Murphy hissed, stabbing the table with his knife and planting his hands loudly on either side of it, “—of being questioned. Get the fuck out.”

**_“Very good,”_** complimented Sheidheda, a rare achievement that usually brought Murphy no joy.

He didn’t sit again until Peake had left the dining room and started making his way down the stairs, effectively banished from working in the tower. When he dragged his chair back into the table, Murphy shoveled a huge forkful of rice into his mouth, glaring at the doorway the servant had disappeared through.

Murphy was all too aware of the Skyperson’s staring and the cooks watching from the kitchen doorway, and lost his appetite quickly, feeling judged, feeling his heart beat quickly and his hands shake with the rage of generations of Commanders who had fought for respect despite their age, their appearance, their upbringing, their abilities and once, long ago, their gender, their sexuality, their race.

“Maybe I should go back to my room,” Bellamy suggested carefully, likely also feeling the eyes of the cooks on him.

“No,” Murphy ordered. “Eat your food.”

Bellamy brought his fork slowly to his plate and then his mouth, trying to chew quietly.

“I thought the venison was good,” Clarke eventually murmured, a mere dot in the stretch of awkward silence following Murphy’s outburst.

“It is,” Bellamy agreed, still trying to keep his voice down.

Murphy ripped a chunk of tougher meat in half with his teeth, offering nothing to the conversation.

** _“I’m sure there’ve been worse first dates.”_ **

He shoved his chair away from the table and left the room, and no one called him back.

Cloak. Stairs. Street.

It was a little earlier than usual, but it wasn’t like he went every night. It wasn’t like they were expecting him.

He only went when things got hard, and he felt spread too thin. He’d relax enough to keep the voices asleep, and be tired enough when he got back to the tower to get some rest of his own.

There was a man there in the building draped with flowers, tall and blond and sweet, who always told Murphy he reminded him of his spouse who had passed away, years ago. 

“Sorry, was that a weird thing to say?” he’d asked the first time he’d mentioned it. Murphy was too busy not believing he’d remind anyone of someone they could have loved.

He always hoped, under the surface, that that man would be the one to pull him through the curtain, but he’d never make such a request. He had to be careful not to get too attached to any one person. Love was weakness, after all, and by God was Murphy way too interested in it.

He moved through the streets like a shadow, trying to draw as little attention as possible. He’d nearly mastered the art. Though, when a trader’s booth stacked high with books caught his attention, a passerby nearly knocked the wind out of Murphy the way they slammed into his back.

He moved out of the flow of traffic, coming closer to the trader.

“Interested?” he asked, looking a little desperate. Not many people spoke Gonasleng, the language of the old books, let alone read it. If they did, even fewer had the time for nor an interest in literature of a world that was no longer relevant.

Murphy knew one person, though, who had all the time in the world and nothing to do with it.

“I'll take four,” Murphy said, to which the trader’s eyes bulged.

“Anything particular in mind?”

Murphy was among those who had never learned to read at all, let alone Gonasleng. Flamekeepers were taught to read and write, so natblidas could dedicate all their time to training and leadership studies. Clarke read everything to him, and any letters he wanted to send had to be dictated to her.

“Surprise me.”

In the end, Murphy was four books heavier and one dagger lighter, and began winding his way back through the crowd with the books stacked up to his shoulder, wobbling precariously as he tried to see where he was headed between the edge of his hood and the top of the fourth book.

Conquering blindly the winding staircase without tripping upwards and busting his face into a million pieces was its own challenge, but soon enough Murphy was standing before Bellamy’s door, feeling stupid.

He’d meant to go to the brothel and take his mind off of everything he’d done right or wrong in bringing the Skyperson in and treating him like an honored guest in front of his furious people, and now he was stood in the hallway with a present for him.

Maybe he’d just leave the books outside. But then Bellamy might not know they were for him, or a servant would move them to Clarke’s quarters instead. They weren’t _for _Clarke. They were for Bellamy.

The Skyperson was usually asleep by now along with the rest of the tower, so Murphy knocked softly. When no response came, he sighed with relief and turned the doorknob. If Bellamy was asleep, Murphy could just leave the books and not have to explain himself, because frankly he wasn’t sure he could. 

**_“I think it’s a nice gesture of goodwill,” _**said Bekka, voice faint. Murphy nodded, and stacked the books up on Bellamy’s dresser quietly.

Before he left, he spared a glance at the Skyperson’s bed. His empty bed.

After a moment of hesitation, he crossed the room and inspected the flat furs closer, just in case. There was nothing underneath them. He spun around, looking over the entire bedroom. Sure enough, Bellamy was gone.

“Murphy,” said someone suddenly, breathlessly, and the bedroom door hit the wall hard and trembled on its hinges. Clarke was panting in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. “Outside.”

He broke into a run, Clarke hot on his heels. He moved over the stairs like he was made of air, formless and untraceable, and they disappeared underneath his boots. On the ground floor, Dax fled from his post guarding the dungeon to chase after them, not bothering to ask what the trouble was. Dax was a lot of things, but hesitant was not one of them.

Outside, the typically packed street out in the night looked hauntingly empty, but an uproar of voices drew the trio’s attention to a massive crowd circling something to their right out of the tower.

Murphy exchanged a glance with a worried Clarke, sprinted to the edge of the crowd and began wedging his way through, no longer a shadow but a battering ram. 

Some began to part for him, bowing, but others who recognized him made efforts to discreetly block him, clearly wanting whatever was happening in the circle to go on uninterrupted. He pushed forward, and bursted into the clearing.

In his short life, Murphy had seen a lot of violence. He’d seen a lot of blood. He’d seen a lot of hurt. He’d seen a lot of cruelty.

Little had turned his stomach quite like what he saw then, and it would take him a long time to understand why.

Bellamy was tied to a post, his shirt torn open as Murphy’s people stood before him, each making a cut in the Skyperson’s chest and passing the blade to the next. 

It was then that Murphy realized the crowd was not a crowd at all, it was a line so long that it had curled into a circle that was bursting at the seams, so all could see when their turn would be up.

Bellamy’s head was hung, only arching back silently when he was cut again. So stubborn. So, so stubborn.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Murphy shouted, rushing toward the middle of the clearing.

The men guarding Bellamy bowed deeply, despite breaking into his tower, despite having kidnapped a man under his protection, despite drawing blood in the streets right under Murphy’s nose. It was a fucking joke.

“Heda,” said one of the men, rising out of his bow to stand tall over Murphy. “He killed one of our own. His crimes can’t go unanswered.”  


“I _pardoned_ him.”

Another cut broke Bellamy’s skin, and Murphy’s head whipped to the side at the sound of a whimper that the stubborn Skyperson just couldn’t stifle.

Fury burning through his veins, Murphy darted between the men and reached for the red blade making its way toward Bellamy’s mutilated chest. Two sets of arms yanked him back, and the crowd did not burst into gasps and chatter at the manhandling of the Commander like he’d expected. They were all silent, stone-faced, waiting for their turn. Murphy stared wide-eyed out on his people, the world spinning around him as he stood unmoving.

**_“You’ve lost control,”_** Sheidheda explained. **_“You’ve lost them all.”_**

Murphy, with what felt like the whole world between him and Bellamy, turned on one of the three guards and threw a punch that cracked bone. Dax leapt forward at the violent queue, sword drawn, and pursued the other two guards. 

Just as the man he’d hit took his hand from his bloody nose and advanced on him, reaching out to hurt Murphy, Murphy punched again. And again. And again.

“I’m—“_ crack,_ “—the,” _crack, _“—Commander!” he screamed, baring down and landing punches on the large man until he was lying on the cobblestone, unconscious and unrecognizable, looking like a mirror image of Bellamy’s chest.

Then Murphy stepped into the circle of orange torchlight again, drawing his dagger to cut Bellamy’s restraints away.

“I’m sorry, Heda, but you can’t stop this,” said a voice from behind him, whose body wrapped an arm around Murphy’s throat and _squeezed._

Panic rushed to Murphy’s head as he gasped for air, and all of the Commanders woke at once, remembering everything Murphy remembered, feeling everything he felt.

** _“NO.”_ **

Murphy reached back, and drove his blade into the man’s stomach.

The dagger returned to the world with an unforgiving squelch, blood splattered up to Murphy’s elbow. The crowd screamed in horror and protest as the man fell and Murphy ignored them, going for the post, going for the ropes.

He caught Bellamy as he slumped forward, restraints sawed away, and shared the still-warm blood of his chest generously with Murphy’s clothes.

In his arms, Bellamy tilted his head up, eyes unfocused, flitting around Murphy’s face.

“You’re crying,” he observed, voice thick and slow and confused. Delirium had already set in. Bellamy’s head lolled, and came to rest against Murphy’s collarbone. 

Murphy reached up his free hand to smear away the tears on his cheeks, looking frantically around at the crowd that seemed to be both closing in on them and zooming out, far away, leaving them alone in the halo of the torches. 

Everything was falling apart, and it was all his fault.

“Don’t you worry, Bellamy,” he said into the Skyperson’s black hair, watching stronger guards rush to their aid as the others had come down from the tower and began subduing belligerent protestors who hadn’t gotten their turn. “I won’t let you die.”

“You’re weird,” Bellamy replied simply, voice muffled by Murphy’s cloak.

Murphy clenched his jaw as Bellamy groaned in pain, then, and placed a hand on the back of his head, holding him close and still.

He _felt_ weird.


	8. of the long story or the short one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bear — the antlers

They came into his room when he was half-asleep, kept awake still only by thoughts of the Commander, which had all but consumed him. Was he winning him over? Warming him up to the Skypeople? Or was he wasting precious time; time that would be better spent plotting the Commander’s downfall, or his death? Could Bellamy even kill him if it came down to it, after the boy had tried to give him a place to call home?

He’d gotten his answer the same night, dragged out of the tower with a gag in his mouth and tied to a post, cut into by countless hands, again and again and again, until Murphy.

Bellamy’s memory was foggy, but Murphy had saved him. That much he was sure of.

He groaned as he sat up in bed, his chest aching. He looked down and touched the white bandages circling his torso, from his navel up to his armpits.

There was a glass of water on the bedside table, sparkling with the reflection of morning light seeping in from the window, and Bellamy reached out for it carefully and drank. Or rather guzzled, and then reminded himself to slow down just before it ran out.

With a series of grunts, he stiffly threw the furs off his legs and wiggled off of the bed. Making for the door, he realized he was dressed in no more than his briefs as his feet touched the cold floor at the end of the hide rug. His thigh wound had been treated again, and there were bandages on his heels, as well, covering some kind of shiny salve that had been smeared onto his slow-healing blisters. He’d have to thank the healer who he was causing so much trouble.

Just as he touched the door’s handle and made to pull it open, he noticed a stack of books on the dresser that hadn’t been there before. The spines read: Moby Dick, The Hobbit, Scarface, and Romeo and Juliet. A little bit of everything, then, Bellamy thought, patting the stack of books with a smile that surprised him.

He had nothing to be happy about, really, considering the state of his body and the gruesome events of the night previous that would surely haunt Bellamy for some time to come, but it felt as though something had come to an end and a weight had been lifted off of him. He’d had his brush with death, and now it was over.

Now it was over.

Now it was over.

Now it was over.

Bellamy shook his head and stepped out of the bedroom, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of Clarke sitting by the door, head on her knees. He clicked his door closed behind him quietly, and she looked up, blinking hard.

“Bellamy,” she greeted him, voice groggy. “Feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bellamy lied, “What are you doing out here?”

Clarke stood and stretched, still dressed in the robes she’d been in last night, along with an unfamiliar, curved scabbard and its sword hanging along her spine. She put a pair of gray pants and a crocheted black sweater into his hands, and then, as an afterthought, took them back. 

“Here,” she directed, slipping the shirt over his head and guiding his arms into the sleeves. Then she squatted down to help him step into the pants without bending over, and Bellamy appreciated that she was at least clinical about it. He was embarrassed enough as it was.

“Why don’t we go get you some breakfast?” Clarke asked as he buttoned his pants himself, pushing her helpful hands away from his waistband. Grounders and their boundary issues. “You slept all day yesterday, I’m sure you’re starving.”

“All day…?” Bellamy repeated, as Clarke wordlessly tugged him along by his elbow to the dining room and straight into the kitchen. There were only two cooks, both of them waiting for orders.

In fact, Bellamy had noticed the tower as a whole was surprisingly quiet, and felt empty. There were no guards at any of their posts, no servants rushing about in the corridors, no ambassadors exploring the tower or enjoying their own meals at the smaller tables by the grand windows of the dining hall.

Clarke took it upon herself to rifle through the cabinets, which visibly annoyed the cooks and made Bellamy raise his brows, to fetch two apples and saw away two slices of some kind of spotty brown bread from its loaf. She slapped the bread and fruit unceremoniously onto a single plate in a big heap and handed it to Bellamy, who took it, because he was afraid of what might happen to him at the hands of hurricane Clarke if he didn’t.

“You know what? Murphy hasn’t had his breakfast. Come with me?” she asked, already walking out of the dining room. Bellamy followed, bewildered, until she stopped at the door to the Commander’s bedroom.

Muffled, frantic speaking floated underneath the door, and Clarke knocked to the tune of a song, some kind of code, before swinging the door open and muscling Bellamy inside.

“No,” he argued, arching back against her in the doorway, “I thought you were giving it to him, I don’t—“

“He needs to talk to you, and someone needs to guard the door,” she insisted. Face twisted in confusion, Bellamy eventually allowed himself to be pushed into the bedroom and for the door to be pulled shut behind him.

Then he was stood dumb and silent in the boyishly messy bedroom of the Commander of the Grounders, who was pacing back and forth with his hands on his head, arguing feverishly with no one.

“You think I haven’t thought of that? The bunker could be compromised,” Murphy explained to the air as if it were common sense, making another 180 degree turn to stomp in the other direction. “The rat is on the inside; it could be anyone. We need to— Bellamy.”

Bellamy swallowed as Murphy’s sharp eyes darted up to meet his, feeling like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have.

“Breakfast,” he explained, awkwardly extending the meager plate of bread and apples to Murphy, who eyed it suspiciously. “Clarke picked it out herself.”

Murphy loosened up at that, sighing as he approached to take an apple from the plate and then returned to his bed, stretching onto his tiptoes to slide back onto the high furs. He took a bite of the fruit, gave a pleased sigh, and collapsed onto his back. With a lazy raise of his hand, he invited Bellamy over.

Warily, Bellamy moved to stand near the edge of the bed. Then Murphy slapped the furs, insisting that he sat, so Bellamy sat.

The Commander always had been a very aggressive host, in one way or another.

“Feel like I haven’t eaten in days,” Murphy explained, gnawing away at his apple like someone might have taken it from him. Then he picked his head up, briefly, to give Bellamy a once-over where he sat awkward and stiff on the edge of the bed.

“You should eat something,” he suggested. “…How’s the chest?”

“Fine,” Bellamy answered, and nibbled at the brown bread. It was surprisingly sweet but he just wasn’t hungry, and felt as if he wouldn’t be until he figured out why everything felt so wrong. He snuck a glance at Murphy out of the corner of his eye as the Commander waved his hand sharply and whispered something unintelligible. “How are _you?”_

“I’m not going nuts, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Murphy answered, and tapped his temple. “It’s the past Commanders. They talk to me, guide me. Sometimes a little_ too _much,” he said pointedly to someone Bellamy couldn’t see.

And Bellamy didn’t want to be judgmental. He’d met a lot of people who had… problems. He probably had a few himself. So when Murphy continued whispering to the voices in his head between bites of his apple, Bellamy let them talk.

Up until Murphy said the word “assassins,” at which Bellamy lowered his bread to their shared dish and turned on the bed to stare down at Murphy, who was chattering with his eyes closed.

“What do you mean ‘assassins’?”

The Commander blinked one eye open. “Clarke didn’t tell you?”

“She only said you needed to talk to me,” Bellamy answered. “So talk.”

“You want the long story or the short one?”

Bellamy wanted to rattle the words out of someone. “Just tell me what I need to know.”

Murphy sat up slowly and hunched over, and Bellamy noticed for the first time that morning that he didn’t seem much like the Commander at all. His eye black was flaky and smudged as if it had been on his face for days. He wore a simple, sleeveless red tunic and pants, just like Bellamy, rather than his usual layers of robes and armor and capes. He looked gaunt and tired, yet frenzied.

“Last night there were Azgeda spies seen inside Polis. Clarke thinks they corrupted some of my guards to let the citizens into the tower to take you, use your execution as a distraction so the spies could get inside. I kicked out most of the staff, save for the ones I trust, but it could still be anyone. They could still be here.”

Bellamy’s eyes had gone wide as Murphy spoke, and Murphy waved a dismissive hand at his expression like it wasn’t worth worrying about.

“If my people don’t kill me first, the assassins will. And then it’ll be you. So we’re leaving, at least until Dax and his subordinates secure the place. A week’s time, maybe," Murphy said, stilted, as if he’d just made up his mind on it. “The Commanders don’t like it, but staying here isn’t a risk I’m willing to take. I can’t regain control of anything if I’m dead, or if I let them have you.” 

Bellamy took this in, turning away to the window as Murphy closed his eyes again, maybe fighting with the voices, or maybe just exhausted.

“But you have nowhere to go.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Murphy said firmly. “You just need to go back to your little camp. I’ll get you some better supplies, I could even show you how to build a shelter, and how to fish—“

“Murphy.”

“I was wrong to let you stay here, I’m— I’m sorry this happened to you. So I’ll take you back to your woods—“ 

“Murphy.”

“—and then I can take care of myself, figure all this out—“

_“Murphy.”_

The Commander turned to Bellamy, snapping his mouth shut.

“If I’m going anywhere within half an inch of my life,” Bellamy said calmly, “I want to go home.”

“Oh,” Murphy replied, staring at the floor instead of meeting Bellamy’s gaze. “Is it safe there?”

“For now,” Bellamy answered, knitting his brows at the Commander’s concern for his safety. “Until the rest of our people come down.”

“The _rest _of your—“

Bellamy held up a quieting hand, like the Commander was wont to do to his subjects. Murphy looked affronted, as if no one had ever told him to shut up, but fell silent nonetheless. “We’ll deal with that later,” said Bellamy. “But… why don’t you come with me?”

Murphy balked, and Bellamy would have laughed at his bewildered expression if he hadn’t thought it would make every wound on his chest split open at once.

“I— I’m the Commander,” Murphy stuttered, “They’ll never let me stay there. They’ll kill me.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you attacked the pitiful Skypeople and their puny little camp.”

Murphy threw his hands up. _“You_ suggested it!”

“I’m kidding,” Bellamy muttered. “Kind of. Look, they won’t kill you because they listen to me. Or they used to, at least. And they won’t know you’re the Commander because we won’t tell them. You’re just a regular old Grounder.”

“This is the worst plan I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard a lot of bad plans.”

“No one will ever expect you to be hiding in the Skypeople’s camp. They’ll never find you, and you won’t be out there on your own, defenseless.”  


“I’m never _defenseless.”_

Bellamy ignored him. “Murphy, this is your best shot. Come with me.”

“Bellamy…” Murphy started, hanging his head. “I can’t.”

And Bellamy made a last ditch effort, reaching out to hold Murphy's shoulder, who flinched violently at the touch but didn't fling him over a balcony.  “You saved my life,” Bellamy said, low. “Now let me save yours.”

Murphy’s lips tightened, considering. “I swear to Pramheda, if you’re walking me into a trap…” he sighed, and dragged a hand over his reddening face.  


And Bellamy smiled: disarming, victorious, and a little pleased with the cherry color of the Commander’s ears, too.

“Does that really sound like something I would do?”

Murphy fixed him with a bored look, before smacking Bellamy’s hand away and slipping down from the high bed, rolling his clothes upward in the process. Bellamy smiled as Murphy wiggled his long-backed tunic down from his middle to cover his butt again and stomped to the bedroom door, belligerent.

Bellamy knew it would do him well not to think of Murphy as just a boy like him. He was dealing with someone who was once the most powerful person within Bellamy’s limited but terrifying scope of Earth, and someone who intended to reclaim that title, likely by killing all of those who had sought after his own head once his guards smoked them out of hiding. Murphy was only a boy, but he was dangerous too.

“Clarke,” he said, hushed, and tugged the girl into his room. “I’m going with Bellamy to the Skypeople’s camp, undercover.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“Well,” she replied, crossing her arms, “I’m your Fleimkepa. If you die at their hands, so do I.”

Murphy’s face split into a grin and the two Grounders clasped arms in promise, that hunger for adventure found in all types of youth simmering just under the surface of professionalism, of responsibility, and of unimaginable power. 

Power that Bellamy hadn’t forgotten he needed.

They spent the day collecting supplies: food, canteens, blankets, and sitting with their backs blocking Murphy’s bedroom door, each gripping their weapons tight. Clarke with her fancy scimitar, Murphy and his dual daggers, and a tall decorative spear for Bellamy that Murphy had ripped off his wall.

When night fell, the Commander dressed each of them in one of his dark cloaks, and together they ghosted down the swirling staircase and out to the stables like a little trinity of criminals.

Murphy evidently trusted the stableboy, a twelve year-old who kept his head down as he led Bellamy to a sleek black stallion, while Murphy and Clarke gathered their own steeds. 

Clarke’s was a stark white mare with orange markings on her neck, and Murphy’s was a cream-colored stallion with two gruesome, radioactive heads, each lovingly painted with a slew of red symbols that meant nothing to Bellamy.

“Shado,” explained the stableboy as he adjusted the saddle atop the black horse, who boasted no paint at all. Bellamy supposed it was just a guard’s horse, Shado, rather than a royal one.

As he struggled onto the horse’s back, afraid to grab onto its broad neck for support, he noticed Murphy and Clarke had long since mounted and were grinning at him, waiting.

“Shut up,” Bellamy muttered, finally throwing his leg over the animal. Clarke bursted into giggles, and Murphy’s smile only grew as he tilted forward and spurred them on, Bellamy’s horse tied to his.

They passed through the gates at sundown, Dax and a tower cook manning them as the usual guards had been dismissed. The gates creaked closed behind them and Bellamy thought that they should run, but Murphy merely flicked off his hood, turned his head and rested it against his horse’s sandy mane, the evening breeze tousling his cinnamon hair and soothing his face to peace.

Clarke, too, held her face high and let it be kissed by the wind, which blew her long blonde hair all around her like a halo.

Bellamy had never felt at home in space, but as he mirrored the Grounders and closed his eyes against the orange sun and the warm wind, fixing his hands in the stallion’s soft, dark hair as they moved over the land, he thought maybe he finally understood why everyone on the Ark had wanted to come down to Earth so badly.

He had never thought the hundred lucky, either, but it wasn’t all bad to have been tossed down here before everyone else. And it was about to get a whole lot better, if everything went Bellamy’s way.

It was a day and a half’s travel, and at the colorful patchwork gates of the camp that looked so much higher now, Bellamy found four rifles aimed at him. Clearly a lot had changed since he’d left.

He took off his hood and raised his hands high in the air, Murphy and Clarke carefully and anxiously copying him.

From one of the stands, Miller lowered his rifle.

_“Bellamy? _Lower your weapons. Everyone lower your weapons! Open the gate!”

The multicolored gates were drug open slowly to reveal every delinquent stood between actions as if paused, whispering about Bellamy’s return and the two Grounders accompanying him, no one a prisoner of the other.

And there in the entrance was an exasperated, familiar face framed by long brown hair, a face that made Bellamy feel insurmountably guilty. She looked between the three of them, her finger not far from the trigger of her own rifle.

“Do I want the long story, or the short one?”

Bellamy gave a sheepish smile. “Hey, Lexa.”


	9. of the biggest and the baddest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i want you to want me — gary jules
> 
> [chapter cw // referenced child death, referenced murder, blood, threatened violence]

Murphy had never stopped pretending to be the biggest and the baddest, even before the throne.

When he was young, during conclave training, it was all too easy to tease the other natblidas when his parents weren’t around. To flick boogers and steal snacks and stick out a little boot to trip anyone who dared to walk past him.

(Murphy had never had many friends, either.)

And Murphy was clumsy, having grown legs-first and left the rest of him wanting until late in his teens; lanky and unbalanced. He couldn’t move like the other kids; graceful and sure.

Murphy knew those other kids had noticed, that Heda had noticed. “Pay attention to your opponents’ weaknesses, and take advantage,” she said. And so the natblidas did. They swept Murphy’s long legs, pulled him this way, pushed him that way, spun him until he toppled. He couldn’t slip out of holds, he couldn’t dance languid circles around them like they did to him, teasing his slowness.

But Murphy learned he could strike first and he could strike hard. He could fight nasty, like an animal, like a bull after a red flag. And none of them danced away quickly enough.

Then Commander Somer fell and the conclave horn sounded and he was eleven years old, sat among the gnarled branches of the throne with the bodies of his peers burning in a pyre in the courtyard and his family toiling away in a Trikru village, secret, so no one could use them against him, and Murphy realized he was all alone.

And suddenly, just when he needed it to be true the most, being the biggest and the baddest didn’t seem so important anymore.

The Skypeople’s camp was worse on the inside than it looked from the outside.

They had no crops and only enough meat to fill a small, rickety smokehouse, and a few buckets of fruit and nuts, some of which were poisonous. Their water supply was a barrel of old rain sitting uncovered in the middle of the camp, and they slept in little canvas tents that would be obliterated upon the first storm.

Their tower was no more than the beaten-up metal can they came down in, the ‘Dropship’ they called it, and they had no throne at all.

He and Clarke were stood at the end of a folding table, opposite from Bellamy, who was flanked by two boys and three girls, all six of them staring the royalty down like they were stains on linens.

“Well, should we do introductions?” asked Bellamy, prompting glares from everyone but the boy with the goggles, who gave a little wave.

“Jasper Jordan, at your service.”

A servant? Murphy turned to give Clarke an impressed look, who shrugged, returning his expression. Maybe they had a government here after all.

“Not like that,” Bellamy muttered, looking annoyed. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“Raven,” said another girl, sporting a long ponytail and a grease-stained jaw.

The third boy, one that Murphy found rather unremarkable, raised his hand. “I’m Finn.”

“Hi. Octavia,” greeted the one with the sleek black hair, watching them with wide eyes that danced between suspicion and fascination.

The last girl, the brunette in the green tank with the strange weapon still slung over her shoulder, _Lexa,_ made no effort to greet them at all.

“Why should we let you stay here when your people are killing ours?” she said bluntly, not waiting for them to speak. 

Right down to business, then.

Murphy wasn’t sure how to answer her. ‘Because Bellamy said we could,’ didn’t seem like a sufficient answer. He looked to the Skyperson in question, who was watching Murphy intensely, and spoke just as Murphy opened his mouth.

“Murphy is the leader of the Grounders,” he said gruffly, avoiding Murphy’s eyes, and what the _hell?_

“I thought Anya was their leader,” said Lexa, making her first facial expression since Murphy’d seen her. It was one of confusion, as well as suspicion of Bellamy. Murphy figured they must have matched.

“I don’t know who that is, but by leader I mean the leader of all of them.” Bellamy swallowed, and looked up at last. “The Commander.”

**_“Traitor,”_** hissed Sheidheda.

Murphy knit his brows and shook his head, feeling his heart pound as Bellamy turned an apologetic look on him. What was he _doing?_

“He doesn’t leave this camp until he declares us to be a clan in the coalition and grants us this territory, as well as land for farming, hunting, and expansion.”

Murphy jerked forward, and Clarke grabbed him by the arm just as Lexa pulled out her dark device and aimed. “You _tricked_ me!_”_

Bellamy clenched his jaw and crossed his arms. “Well, at least I didn’t have you tortured and chained up in a dungeon.”

“He what?” Jasper balked, and Lexa gripped her weapon tighter, ready to use it on him.

“I’m the one who let you _go!_

_“You _had me captured in the first place!”

Murphy, for once in his life, had nothing to say. He grit his teeth as Clarke eased him away from the table, holding his wrist tightly.

“Those are our terms, _Heda. _Take all the time you need. I know you’ve got plenty of it.”

** _“Kill him.”_ **

** _“Your people will never have you as their Commander if you agree to these terms. They’ll rebel, and you’ll be executed.”_ **

** _“Kill him.”_ **

** _“But he must go back and take control of throne before Azgeda does! He cannot stay here!”_ **

** _“Kill him.”_ **

** _“Oh, this is bad. This is really, really bad.”_ **

**_“Kill_ _him!”_**

“Where will you take us?” Clarke asked, holding Murphy upright as his head ached with clashing voices. Through the blur, Murphy saw Bellamy. Guilty, guilty, guilty… victorious.

The Skypeople exchanged glances, communicating silently for a moment. “Second floor?” suggested Raven, to which the others nodded. All but one.

“I went free in the capital,” said Bellamy. “They’ll go free here.”

“Since when do you make orders again?” asked Lexa.

Finn grimaced. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

Bellamy bristled with all the argument, but Clarke interrupted him before he could shout.

“We won’t hurt anyone,” Clarke promised. “Believe it or not, we _are_ capable of living in harmony with others.”

“It’s not you two that I’m worried about,” Finn replied, and Clarke tightened her grip on Murphy’s arm.

The Skypeople were no threat when it was Murphy’s people who were closing in on them, outnumbering them, picking them off. They were a nuisance, a fly in a lion’s den.

As they stepped out of the Dropship and were greeted by a sea of armed Skypeople, each wearing faces of hatred, Murphy found himself feeling awfully empathetic to the plight of flies.

“These Grounders live with us now,” Lexa announced from the top of the ramp. “You’ll all leave them alone, but if you see them trying to escape the camp, fire at will.”

“Wait a minute,” Clarke argued as the crowd bursted into excited and angry chatter, turning to glare up the ramp at Lexa. “You can’t do that!” Lexa raised her brows challengingly, and Murphy sighed, pulling her through the crowd by her sleeve.

“Let it go, Clarke. We’re not in charge anymore.”

“Bet you’ve never worked a day in your life, huh?” asked Octavia, hanging a skinned carcass onto a meat hook. “Since you’re like… the King, or whatever.”

Bellamy had assigned him to work in the smokehouse and frankly, Murphy was offended. The heat was unforgiving and the smell was putrid, and the thick, smokey air was hardly breathable. But Murphy had worked worse jobs as a child born of a poor family, and being the Commander was ten times more oppressive than a bit of sweat on his skin.

“This is kind of a vacation, actually,” Murphy answered, and was promptly smacked in the face by a swinging chunk of meat.

“Oops,” said the other Skyperson working the smokehouse, grinning to himself as he lowered his hand. “My bad.”

“Fuck off, Del,” snapped Octavia.

“As you wish, your Grounder Pounderess,” answered Del, stacking more firewood into the flames until the fire was dangerously high, and then took his leave, but not before turning quickly so that the long log in his arms whacked Murphy in his side. His hand slipped, and Murphy hissed as he cut his finger with the homemade meat cleaver he’d been given. He quickly stuck his finger in his mouth, but the cut soon revealed itself to be too deep to stanch that way.

“Forget him. Del’s an asshole,” Octavia muttered after boy had gone, shuffling out of her corner. “I’m gonna go grab some wet leaves to take the fire down. Be back in a jiffy.”

What the fuck was a jiffy?

Murphy looked around the smokehouse for something to stop his bleeding while she was gone, but couldn’t find much. He tore away a piece of his tunic instead and wrapped his finger, watching the cloth turn black.

He liked Octavia. She was nice to him, even if suspicious. So were Finn and Jasper, who had come by the smokehouse to tell him Clarke was working in the med-bay with Lexa and that they were around too, if he had any questions. Whatever that meant. Murphy guessed “Can I leave?” wasn’t going to fly.

Bellamy, though, he hadn’t come around.

Murphy tried not to feel abandoned. Bellamy was right to do this to him, even if it hurt. Even if it ruined everything. It was a smart move, and one that Murphy had tried himself, at that. 

Besides, they were never anything more than a prisoner and a captor, a guest and a host. The only difference was that in Polis, Bellamy was forced to be around Murphy because he was in danger, and here, well, Bellamy didn’t seem to care what happened to Murphy.

It didn’t matter. Like he said, Murphy could take care of himself.

Del came back to hang up a few filleted fish as Murphy squatted behind his table and held his finger, waiting for the bleeding to stop, and paused in the doorway of the smokehouse just as he was leaving again. After a quick check, left and right, Del turned around and pocketed his hands, strutting casually to the back of the little smokehouse to peer down at Murphy.

“Aw,” said Del at the sight of his finger wrapped up in his shirt, and tsk’ed. “Did somebody get a booboo?”

Murphy let his head loll to his shoulder and gave the spiky-haired boy a dull look. He knew how bullies worked, maybe better than anyone. Don’t engage.

Then Del slid the meat cleaver to the edge of Murphy’s table, and lazily pulled it from the tabletop by its handle to hang at his side.

“You know your people have given a couple of us a bit more than paper cuts.”

Don’t engage.

Del squatted in front of him, and reached out slowly to take a fistful of Murphy’s hair in his hand. “Not sure why you and your friend think our camp is a bed and breakfast hotel now, but I for one don’t think there’s enough room for you here."

Don’t engage.

The boy jerked Murphy’s head back with a sharp tug, and brought the bloody cleaver up to his neck. The sharp metal gleamed in the light of the fire, and bit cold against Murphy’s taut throat.

** _“Stop him.”_ **

“Maybe not now, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, Grounder,” the boy whispered. “Eventually.”

Then he clapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, nonchalant, and tossed the cleaver so it clattered loudly on the grimy table. Murphy flinched, and at last took a breath.

“And hurry up with the skinning, would you?” Del said conversationally as he left. “We’re not even close to being done.” Then he slammed the smokehouse door closed, and left the little hut dark.

Murphy swallowed, dropping his face into the hand that wasn’t tangled up in his shirt.

** _“Pathetic.”_ **

** _“They would have killed him if he retaliated. That was smart.”_ **

Murphy composed himself just in time to stand back up as Octavia returned, dropping an armful of leaves onto the fire, sending a dark gray smoke spiraling out through the smokehouse’s chimney. His bleeding had mostly stopped, and Murphy began working quickly at another carcass.

“Better keep that door open,” she reminded him. “I’d rather not suffocate in here.”

Murphy stayed quiet, slicing a long line beneath matted fur, watching his own hand shake.

“…Everything okay?” asked Octavia, taking pause at his silence.

Murphy nodded, and then gave her a small, sarcastic grin, waving his dirty cleaver. “What’s not to like?”

She laughed, returning to her work too. “You’re telling me.”  


Up through the chimney, Murphy could see the stars.

He thought about what it must be like to live up there; if you could see the stars any closer, if they looked like how children drew them, five points and a yellow gleam.

He could imagine it must have been cold outside, but in the smokehouse it was warm. He leaned his head on a crate that had been emptied of its pelts but still smelled a bit rank, closed his eyes, and reached to pull his cape over him. He grabbed air, and let the want for it go.

He’d always used that red cape for comfort instead of valuing it for its power. Sheidheda knew it, and that’s why he hated Murphy so much. But Murphy had never wanted power, in the end. He’d only wanted to feel safe, and who was safer than the Commander?

How stupid he’d been.

Two of the Skypeople snuck up to the doorway of the smokehouse in the dark, and Murphy tried to ignore them as they giggled. Then one of the girls threw a bundle of leaves at him, which Murphy caught, confused.

“Poison oak, enjoy!” she explained, and then the two of them ran off, laughing, as Murphy scrambled to throw the leaves off of him.

But upon further, distant inspection they were harmless, and Murphy sighed, kicking them roughly away from him and curling back up against his crate.

**_ “Don’t pout. You’re a Commander,” _**instructed Flint.

“You’re starting to sound like Sheidheda,” Murphy grumbled.

**_“If it were me,”_** amended Sheidheda,**_ “I wouldn’t call you a Commander at all. You were a kid playing dress-up, and now you are nothing.”_**

**_“Don’t listen to him, Murphy,” _**whispered Bekka, trying to let Murphy have his peace.**_ “It’s going to be okay. You can fix this.”_**

Murphy didn’t answer, working his jaw to fight his tears back.

How had he ended up like this? Curled up in the dirt, a prisoner to the Skypeople and the leader of no one.

He’d tried so hard for so many years, and still amounted to nothing at all.

Against his will he let out a sob, and then covered his mouth in horror as they kept coming; short, hard gasps for air, as salty tears streaked down his face.

**_ “Please, Murphy,”_** whimpered Hinko. **_“Don’t let them find you like this.”_**

**_“Leave him be, Hinko,”_** Bekka ordered gently. **_“Everyone leave him be.”_**

So the Commanders sank away, and in the quiet Murphy cried, gritting his teeth and gripping his pants in his fists, rocking forward and back and feeling like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He’d cried like this only once since his ascension, after his parents were killed. The Queen had sent their heads in a box, demanding Murphy lower the trade ban on Azgeda or they would burn his entire home-village to the ground. He was only thirteen years old.

Murphy kicked at the leg of the table, furious, and then drew his foot back in quickly, stopping his crying as the table collapsed and the cleaver fell amongst the toppled plastic legs.

He covered his mouth and sat very still, hoping that everyone still bumbling around outside was too drunk or too tired to come investigating the loud noise. Evidently they were, all but one.

“Murphy?” he asked, his freckled face blurry through Murphy’s shiny eyes. “I was looking for you, everyone finished working a long time ago…”

Bellamy trailed off as his searching gaze found Murphy in the dark, who remained as still as he could, as if Bellamy might go away if he didn’t move.

“What are you doing?”

Murphy swallowed some of the thickness in his throat. “Sleeping,” he croaked. “So if you don’t mind—”

“Okay, well I made a place in my tent for you, for one, so you don’t need to sleep on the ground,” Bellamy explained, coming closer, to Murphy’s great agony. “For two, why do you sound like you’ve been crying? Please tell me you’re not crying in here.”

Murphy’s stomach sank as Bellamy sat down next to him in the dirt, slow and stiff, trying not to bend his torso.

“Because if you’re crying in here, I’m going to feel really bad about holding you hostage.”

Murphy sniffed. “Bad enough to let me leave?”

“I don’t know. I should probably find out if you’re crying before I make any promises.”

Murphy huffed a wet laugh and crossed his arms over his knees, leaning against the crate again. “I don’t want to go to your tent.”

“Well, everyone else is already sharing with someone. So it’s either me or the dirt.”

“Dirt,” Murphy murmured, and noticed Bellamy watching him when he peeked out over his arms. There was enough moonlight coming in from the chimney to make the tears on Murphy’s cheeks sparkle, and if he hadn’t already been given away, that had done it.

Bellamy sighed. “Why are you crying, Murphy?”

And suddenly the pounding headache, the sick feeling in his stomach, the sensation of having lungs that just wouldn’t fill, it all disappeared, and was replaced with _red._

Bellamy stood, surprised, as Murphy scrambled to his feet and shoved a sliced up finger into his sliced up chest. “Why do you _think_ I’m crying?”

Bellamy said nothing, and Murphy jabbed his finger against him again, glaring at its mark.

“I lost my people, I lost my ten fucking seconds of freedom, and now you’re giving me an ultimatum that ends in my death, one way or another, and it’s a _game_ to you,” Murphy snapped, and as his finger crumpled against his chest, Murphy dared to look him in the eyes. “I_ trusted_ you.”

“What did you want from me, Murphy? Was I supposed to let a hundred kids die so you could have a _friend?”_

“That’s not— I could have called them off!”

“And what happens when the Ark comes down and there are hundreds more of us on your territory, huh? You think the Grounders are just gonna let it slide if we’re not part of the coalition?”

Murphy shook his head, pressing his fist against Bellamy’s chest. “I can’t reallocate their land to the enemy. They’ll kill me, and then they’ll kill all of you. Don’t you understand that?”

“So what? We’re just supposed to die?”

“You’re supposed to_ leave!”_

Bellamy smacked Murphy’s hand away from him. “We won’t make it! We don’t have enough supplies to make the Oregon _fuckin’ _Trail!”

“Then what do we do?” Murphy asked quietly. “What do _you_ suggest _I _do?”

Bellamy visibly clenched his jaw, and then he blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe if you let me leave we can figure something out.”

The Skyperson shook his head. “I can’t. Not after this. If I let you leave now, you’ll kill all of us. Figure it out from in here.”

Murphy wanted to hit something, but he’d already broken the table. He advanced on Bellamy, backing him into a stack of crates that rattled as Bellamy glared down on him and allowed himself to be postured into a corner.

Murphy hoped he looked as awful as he felt; tired, anxious, betrayed. “How could you?” 

Bellamy titled his head. “I took you in when you had nothing,” he whispered, and then leaned in close, until their noses might have touched. “Would it kill you to say thank you?”

And Murphy remembered how angry the Skyperson had been, kicking soup on Murphy’s boots and spitting at him, lunging at him with rocks and glass shards, and all Murphy had wanted was to use him for his people’s benefit.

His medicine had never tasted so sour.

“I’m not calling a truce, and I’m not giving you any land,” Murphy said quietly, knowing he was sentencing the coalition to death just to make Bellamy’s betrayal worth nothing. “You’ll be waiting forever.”

With a huff, the other boy pushed off of the crates and tried to muscle past Murphy, and Murphy stopped him with a hand on his stomach, meaning to shove him back against the boxes but doing little more than curling his fingers in the fabric of Bellamy’s shirt, the one from his own drawer, the one that reminded him of home.

Bellamy stared down at him as they stood in the pool of moonlight seeping in from the chimney, eyes dark as he gently wrapped his hand around Murphy’s wrist and reached up to wipe away some of his drying tears with the other. He stopped with his fingers framing Murphy’s ear, and between the not-breathing and the heart-pounding, Murphy thought he was going to die.

“Good thing I’ve got nothing better to do,” Bellamy answered, and then yanked Murphy’s hand off of his shirt like he was a parasite.

He left without another a word, and Murphy was too busy watching him to go to notice the canister that rolled up to his feet, until the cherry smoke had swirled into his line of sight, and he was falling forward into black.


	10. of the very white room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> creep — daniela andrade
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, threatened violence]

The first thing Bellamy saw was stars.

A city under a cobalt sky, dashed with celestial light. Beyond that a golden frame, and beyond that, white walls, white floors, white door.

He jolted up in the bed and touched his chest, lifting the white tank-top up to reveal fresh bandages around his torso. He wore a loose pair of white shorts, too, but little else. His toes curled as they touched the cold, spotless white floor.

Other than the famous painting on the wall, there was a camera in the corner of the very white room, watching him with a blinking red eye, and a porthole in the door that Bellamy smashed with the spotless white coat rack.

Scraping his arm along the jagged glass, Bellamy unlocked the door and kicked it open, sweeping a shard up from the floor that bit into his hand as he darted into the hall, which was lined with doors like his. Every room was empty and sterile, all but one, where a person in a plastic blue suit was tucking fresh sheets onto the bed.

Bellamy approached quietly, and then slammed the stranger against the wall and yanked their mask off. The cleaner was a young girl with frizzy black hair and a gap between her teeth, who yelped as he fisted his hand into the front of her suit and jerked her.

“Please, stop, you’ll contaminate me,” she begged, holding up her hands and shaking white wires from her ears, wires that played soft music from where they hung out of her pocket, forgotten.

“Where the hell am I?” 

The girl only let out a sob, and Bellamy hesitated to press the glass closer to her neck, feeling a disturbing sense of déjà vu.

“Where are my friends? Who are you?”

The girl wept.

Fine. Bellamy pulled her out of the room by her rustling suit, dragging her down the hallway with little resistance. At the first large, metal door he found, he struggled to push it open, to no avail. The girl flinched as he punched the metal.

“Keycard,” she whimpered. “Let me get my keycard.”

Bellamy glared at her, and then gave a sharp nod, watching carefully as she reached slowly for her pocket and held a small card up to a scanner. The scanner beeped, and the big door hissed open, leading to nowhere. An elevator.

“Where does it go?” he snapped, and the girl let out another loud, hideous sob at his tone.

“I can take you to your f-friends… go— go inside. Press—“ She stopped, choking on a sob and blinking tears away. “Press number t-two… Do you know n-numbers?”

“Yes,” Bellamy sneered, “I know numbers.”He yanked her inside and pressed his knuckles against the number two, and held tight to the girl’s stupid suit until the doors opened again.

This hallway was darker, and noisier. Bellamy followed the sound, dragging the weeping girl along, until he was faced with a sight that made him wonder if he was dreaming.

Hundreds of people; clean, healthy people, young and old. Sitting at long dining tables piled high with intricate and heavy food, even fancier than the kind he’d had in the Commander’s tower. The people were dressed colorfully and smiled often, chatting amongst themselves underneath the soft light of chandeliers. Glass and silverware clinked between the gentle notes of a pianist’s song, and Bellamy watched as an old woman nearest the hallway stopped shakily cutting into her slice of cherry pie, pointed at him, and screamed.

“I can’t believe you made an old lady cry. Actually, you made _two_ people cry.”

Bellamy picked at the chocolate cake sat in front of him, which Jasper had insisted on. 

They’d taken him to the med bay to dress his wrist and change him into clean clothes, clothes that were too bright with too many buttons and too tight of collars. He was forced to apologize to a puffy-eyed Maya Vincent, the cleaner, who sniffled and said she wouldn’t press charges. Whatever that meant. Then he sat through some kind of orientation, reading a pamphlet while some lady told them about all the wonderful things Mount Weather had to offer, and where they offered them.

He felt stupid, sitting in a fancy dining room in a purple button-up shirt eating desserts, about as stupid as he’d felt in Polis, wearing fancy little tunics and taking baths in the middle of his fluffy bedroom.

His life wasn’t meant to be luxurious. They were fighting a war that he just couldn’t finish, and he was running from crimes that never caught up to him. 

Bellamy was tired of feeling stupid.

He imagined Lexa here, wearing a dress and soaking in warm light and eating little desserts, and figured maybe that was something she needed before he laughed at the idea. Murphy though, done up in a pink shirt with tiny buttons instead of all his dark Grounder gear, wandering amongst the big, scary Mountain Men that had turned out to be regular, if not _soft_ people, trying to make sense of classic art: now that was something he’d like to see.

Bellamy hadn’t liked the way they’d left things the night before, thinking of Murphy crying in the smokehouse because of him. Because Bellamy took everything from him, even if he had to do it. He wasn’t sure how he’d fix it, if it could even be fixed.

He just knew he wanted to see him. He wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t as thrilled as Jasper was to be here.

It was kind of silly, wasn’t it? That they were both prisoners now, prisoners who had been napped for their own good.

Bellamy set his fork down, giving up on the cake. Jasper was eating feverishly despite looking ill, on his third slice of pie just because he could. “Have you seen the Grounders?" 

Jasper chewed slower then, thoughtful. “Come to think of it, I haven’t. I’m sure they mistook them for part of the hundred anyway. We could go look in the dorms?”

“Yeah, okay,” agreed Bellamy, pushing out his chair. “Let’s go.” 

“Oh, like right now?” Jasper frowned, staring down at his pie. “I kind of… wanted to…”

Bellamy sighed, and took his seat again. “Finish the pie, Jas.”

The dorm to which Bellamy and Jasper had been assigned was crowded, bunk beds shoved up against the salmon walls with bookshelves and another grand piano taking up the rest of the room.

Harper and Miller played cards, Raven was studying sheet music as Finn plonked away at the ivories, Octavia was doodling in a notebook, and Lexa was lounging on one of the beds with her nose in a book, frowning each time Finn made a particularly awful noise.

“Don’t see him,” Jasper observed and shrugged, patting Bellamy on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’s just in one of the other dorms, or planning a prison break or something… Hey, are you guys playing Go Fish? Oh, man, you two aren’t ready for the Ace!”

Bellamy raised his brows in amusement as Jasper darted off to join Harper and Miller’s game, fighting to be dealt in, _“No one calls you the Ace!”_ and pocketed his hands as he made his way over to Lexa, flicking Octavia’s notebook closed as he passed by and getting his side whacked for his efforts.

“Good read so far?” he asked as Lexa scooted up the bed to make room for him to sit.

Lexa smiled, keeping her eyes on her page. “Can’t say. Thanks to Mozart over there I've been reading the same paragraph for half an hour.”

Bellamy grinned, wincing as Finn pressed two keys that should not have been pressed at once. Lexa sighed and shut her book, pulling her knees to her chest and watching Finn play. “Have you seen Clarke by any chance? We were in the med-bay together, that’s the last thing that I remember.”

Bellamy shook his head. “Can’t find Murphy either.”

She looked unsettled by this for an almost indiscernible moment, before cracking her book open again and wiggling back into the pillow she’d propped against the wall. “They’ll turn up.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy agreed quietly, watching everyone celebrate around him like everything wrong in the world had disappeared. Like it was all over now.

”Yeah, they’ll turn up.”

They didn’t turn up.

Bellamy checked the other dorms. Bellamy checked the other hallways. Bellamy checked the mess hall again. And again. And again. Bellamy checked every room he could get into, and soon found himself standing in front of the glass doors to the office of Dr. Cage Wallace.

“Name,” said the guard, tone dispassionate and bored.

“Uh, Bellamy Blake.”

Then the guard leaned into the office, announced “Dr. Wallace, Bellamy Blake is here to see you,” and, well, Bellamy could have done that.

He was ushered inside, and felt instantly uncomfortable as the pale, wide-mouthed man scratched his pen harshly against a sheet of paper, sat at a sleek mahogany desk with two leather chairs before it that Bellamy imagined had never been sat in, and a decorative longsword pinned up on the wall behind him.

The swords in Murphy’s room never made him uncomfortable, but this room bore the weapon like a threat, even if the doctor didn’t much look like he knew how to use it.

“Pretty sure you kids are supposed to go to my father with your little inquiries.”

Bellamy couldn’t help it, his face twisted up like he smelled something bad at the sound of the man’s slimy voice.

“I don’t know where his office is. You’ll have to do.”

Dr. Wallace looked up for the first time at that, his scowl turning into a predatory smile. “How can I help you, Mr. Blake?”

“Two of my people are missing. I wanna know where they are.”

Dr. Wallace blinked, bored already, and returned to signing papers that he tossed aside without reading.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Murphy and Clarke. A boy a little shorter than me, brown hair, blue eyes. He was wearing a red shirt. And a girl, blonde—“

“Ah,” said the doctor, “The Grounders.”

Bellamy frowned, taking a step back. “No, they were ours…”

Dr. Wallace smiled that terrible smile again, shaking his head like Bellamy was no more than a child lying about stealing cookies while he had a chocolate smudge on his cheek.

“The Commander and his Flamekeeper got away, kid. So why don’t you stop tearing this place apart and go play some cards.”

Bellamy blinked, and looked down at his sneakers. That was a good thing, right? Murphy and Clarke were free, and his people were safe inside the Mountain. The Arkers were never Bellamy’s problem to begin with.

It was a good thing. 

It was a good thing.

It was a good thing, right?

Back at the dorm, exhaustion and stress had caught up to many of the kids, who were now curled up in bed, fast asleep. Harper, Jasper, and Maya, evidently a new friend of Jasper’s, were still sat around the table playing a hushed game of cards.

“Any luck with Commander Murphy?” Jasper asked, glancing up briefly as he placed a pair of cards down.

“Maya, got any tens?” Harper interrupted.

Bellamy furrowed his brows. “That Dr. Wallace guy says they knew he and Clarke were Grounders and they got away, but something just doesn’t feel right.”

Jasper shrugged, nudging Maya, who had gone still and forwent playing her turn. The girl flinched, shuffling slowly though her hand as if in a daze. Harper grinned up at Bellamy while she waited. “You miss them already, huh? That’s called Stockholm syndrome, you know.”

As Jasper and Harper launched into a whispered argument about whether that was a true definition of the phrase, Bellamy stared at the back of Maya’s slow-moving form, and watched the way her hand trembled as she folded all her cards back together and hid them against her chest, even though Bellamy had seen a ten of hearts.

“Go Fish.”


	11. of the case of whether or not he was dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll be good — jaymes young
> 
> [chapter cw // violence, blood, threatened death]

Murphy’s mind was funeral silent as they stripped him down to nothing, as they dusted him with a powder that_ burned_ and hosed him down until he was stumbling back from the force of the water, and being shoved forward again by the heavy cuff around his neck like he was a wild animal.

They scrubbed his skin with sharp bristles until he was bright red under the low fluorescent lights, and he tried to keep his grip on the floor as his toes slipped between spaces in the wet grate beneath him. They stuck needles in his arms. They shoved their fingers in his mouth and shined a light on his teeth, like he was hiding something in there. They pushed a metal tube to the back of his throat, and forced him to swallow something. He didn’t know what. He figured that even if he found out, there would be nothing he could do. He was not in control anymore. Not even close.

With one more injection, Murphy was gone just as soon as he woke.

He came to again in a blue room that rattled and wept, and there they were.

All of his people that had vanished, or what was left of them. Those who had been taken in the middle of the day without a trace, disappeared from the fields and the forests the moment they were alone, never to be seen again. Unless they had been made Ripas, and came back to tear their own families limb from limb.

Murphy unfolded himself from the corner of his cage and shifted onto his knees on the crosshatching of the cage floor, hunched over to fit inside the little box.

They all looked sick and gaunt, pale under the blue lights, crumpled up in their cages like paper dolls instead of warriors. Victims, instead of farmers and traders and fighters and sailors and healers and builders and parents and siblings and children. They were all just numbers to the Mountain Men. Resources.

There was a legend among his people that the men who lived under the mountain drank above-grounders blood, believing if one day they drank enough, they could come up to see the sun and touch the grass.

Murphy was sure that was where he was. For once, he was sure.

As Murphy looked to his left through the squares of the metal cage door and saw a short, pale body hanging from her feet, her blonde hair brushing the floor as tubes stuck out of her every which way and stayed thick with blood, feeding it to a machine, Murphy decided they’d never see _shit._

He turned over and kicked the cage door hard, and then kicked it again, and again, and again—

“Shof op,” _Be quiet,_ snapped the person next to him, though his voice was tired and quiet. “Emo teik the yuj fos.” _They take the strong first._

Murphy dropped his heel and breathed out, trying to soothe his rage long enough to respond in a way that wouldn’t make the boy with the Sangedakru tattoos reach over and dig his eyes out while Murphy slept.

“Bilaik ste ai Fleimkepa. Teik em teik ai.” _That’s my Flamekeeper. Let them take me._

The boy straightened up then, as much as one could in such a little cage, and shook his long, dark bangs out of his eyes. “You’re—“ he began, looking Murphy over. “Heda?”

Murphy frowned, crossing his arms over his nearly-naked form. Though he would’ve almost preferred to be totally nude over the weird bandage diaper they’d wrapped around his rear and privates. He could have killed them all for that alone.

The boy’s brown eyes seemed to clear, and he stuck a few fingers through their shared cage wall. His skin was still tanned with desert sun, so he hadn’t been here long. Murphy imagined none of them lasted long enough to lose their color by way of the darkness, and only by being drained.

Unsure of what to do with the offering, Murphy hooked the tips of his fingers together with the boy’s.

“Heda, I’m Monty. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Murphy raised a brow as they pulled their hands back again. “What’s a kid from Sangeda doing speaking Gonasleng?”

“What’s the Commander doing naked in a cage?” he retorted, before covering his mouth. “I’m sorry. Pramheda, I’m sorry. I’m just—“

He got it. A place like this could make a saint lose their manners. 

Murphy shook his head, sighing. “There’s a lot going on right now that you don’t know about, Sunshine.”

Monty nodded, and sat back slowly in his cage. After a few minutes of pensive silence, he turned to Murphy and smiled, something small and prideful. “I taught myself.”

“What?”

“Gonasleng. I wanted to move up from scavenging tech to working with it faster than the others my age, so I taught myself. So I could read the manuals, the handbooks and stuff.”

Murphy let out a little laugh, absently tracing a few goosebumps on his knees. “Ambitious.”

“Look who’s talking,” Monty replied. “I had no idea you were so young.”

Murphy’s smile faltered a little. “No offense, but if you’re about to say something about how I must have been trying my best but just didn’t have enough experience at my ripe young age—“

“I wasn’t,” Monty interrupted. “I was going to say you were great.”

Murphy chewed his lip, fighting a wobbly smile. “Thanks.”

“And you’ll still be great, when you get out of here.”

Murphy shook his head, feeling the crosshatches slowly bruising the back of his skull. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re locked in cages in a secure room in an impenetrable, sealed bunker. We’re never getting out of here. It’s over.”

“Then why were you fighting?”

Murphy frowned, and Monty curled his arms around his frail-looking frame, a satisfied expression on his face.

“It’s not over until you lose hope.”

Pramheda, and Murphy thought _Clarke_ was cheesy.

Just as he opened his mouth to say so, the interior door unsealed and hissed open. The others fell silent, no longer attempting to break out of their cages or whisper amongst each other, some feigning sleep.

Monty, though, who had advised Murphy to look weak: he glared head-on at the two guards as they traveled through aisles of cages, looking for their next blood-bag.

Damn, that kid was something else.

Then the guards turned and met Monty’s brave eyes, and seemed to decide the same thing.

“This one’ll do,” said one of the men, making Monty’s brave face go blank, and Murphy closed his eyes.

**_ “Don’t do anything stupid,”_** warned Sheidheda, and Murphy sighed.

Then he kicked the cage door. And then he kicked it again. And again. And again. And again.

The guards smiled like sharks who smelt blood in the water, and yanked open Murphy’s door. “Looks like we got a live one.”

** _“Don’t—“_ **

As soon as the door was openMurphy lunged, hoping to grab something, scratch something, punch something. What he got was the second guard’s ear, and a shock baton in the stomach that sent him contorting and arching back against the cage’s side, seeing white.

The others were in a frenzy now, shouting nonsense as a third man walked in, a man in a suit with a wide, cruel smile.

“Commander Murphy,” he greeted loudly, and the other captives fell silent again, horrified. “How convenient. I was just coming to see our esteemed guest.”

Murphy only glared, panting and holding his stomach.

“We’ve had our eyes on you for a long time, _Heda._ I thought maybe we’d keep you as a souvenir, but I hear you’ve got an interesting blood type, and my research has hit a bit of a wall. Besides, it’ll be so much easier to pick off the animals while they’re running around with their head cut off,” he said, all with a sick grin on his face. "You're the head."

Murphy swallowed the pain down, rolling his head to give the man a little smile of his own. “Jokes tend to be funnier when you don’t have to explain them.”

“Oh yeah?” answered the man. “Tell me a joke, Commander. Make me laugh.”

“Come closer,” Murphy croaked as if weak, feeling a shiver walk down his spine as he stared into the man’s gray eyes, as he smiled big and slow.

“That’s too bad,” he whispered. “I think I’ve heard this one.” Then he jammed the guard’s shock baton against Murphy’s side, forcing him further back into the cage as Murphy writhed, his eyes rolling back. Then he jerked Murphy’s arm taut, and with a syringe between his gloved fingers, injected Murphy with another round of that sweet goodnight.

“Had to do the honors myself,” he bragged, as Murphy’s vision darkened around the edges and his head lolled forward. “What’s that brutal little myth of yours? That you absorb the power of every life you take? Maybe they’ll make me their God.”

And at that, the room exploded into a clashing symphony of rattling cages and screams, protests and curses and exclamations that these men would never understand. Murphy couldn’t help but smile as everything began to fade away.

“Osir badin klin kom yu, Heda,” Monty murmured over the noise, having slipped his fingers through the cage wall to touch Murphy’s ankle. _We swear loyalty to you, Commander._

As the darkness consumed Murphy again, his last thought was that maybe he had amounted to something after all.

Murphy felt very dizzy when he arrived in either the Flame or Hell, and noticed that the Flame-or-Hell looked very blue, and very upside down, and very much like the room he was just in.

Sure, if it was Hell, maybe it was a worst memory kind of thing, but surely they could have done better than that.

Murphy blinked, and then there was the upside-down face of a girl in his face, framed by poofy hair and holding a very thick needle in her hand.

“Are you Commander Murphy?” she asked.

“I think so,” Murphy answered. “Am I in Hell?”

“For now,” she replied. “I’m Maya. I’m a… _friend _of Bellamy’s.”

Then she straightened up and went over to inspect the beeping machine beside him, which was also upside down.

“Your vitals are okay, you’ll make it a little while longer,” she explained, tearingaway the draining tube, and oh, Murphy was being bled. That was why everything was upside down. And he figured the case of whether or not he was dead didn’t much matter while he was stuck dangling there, anyway.

“I’ll come back for you,” said Maya, sounding sorry even though Murphy didn’t know who she was.

“Could you maybe unplug my friend, too?” he asked, and the girl nodded, rushing over to rip the drainage tube from Clarke as well.

As the door unsealed, Murphy stared at his knuckles brushing the floor, looking at the bandaged cut on his finger. “Hey, _hey! _'SBellamy okay?”

“Yeah,” Maya answered, frozen halfway through the exit. “Bellamy’s okay.”

Murphy would have nodded if he could have, and closed his eyes, tired, as the door closed again.

Bellamy wouldn’t have been okay in Murphy’s Hell, so Murphy was probably somewhere else.

**_“Maybe purgatory,”_** suggested Hinko.

Yeah, Murphy agreed. Purgatory could be nice.


	12. of the last grounders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> keep on loving you — cigarettes after sex
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, graphic violence, suffocation, murder]

Three days.

Bellamy knew this because they had let him shower three times, and he had worn three shirts. Purple, blue, and now white.

He’d worn the top button undone that day so he could breathe, after Octavia had told him he didn’t have to button all of them just because Jasper did. That he didn’t have to do what everyone else was doing at all.

Bellamy would have done his own thing, but he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He’d never really… had the chance, he supposed.

He sat in the sill of a window that led to nothing, just foggy squares of glass stacked up inside of a frame, a purple feature wall behind them that almost gave the room the appearance of looking out upon a perpetual night sky. And he watched Octavia write in her notebook and play M.A.S.H. with Fox, watched Finn and Raven play duets on the piano that were either starting to become bearable or Bellamy had lost enough of his hearing from Finn’s hideous compositions that he didn’t notice if it wasn’t, watched Harper, Jasper, and Miller teach each other card tricks from a little booklet they’d found, and sometimes he looked over her shoulder as Lexa read that big green book of hers.

Bellamy imagined it was raining as they read, pattering gently on the window as the air swam with the cold wetness of it all and seeped through his tent’s canvas, through the little place where the zipper split that Bellamy always left undone on accident on purpose. Now that he’d had the ground and the sky at once, he never wanted to be anywhere else. 

He thought he might go crazy in here, and he was only on his third shirt.

_“I reached out and touched his hands and they stilled at once,”_ said Lexa’s book, from where she had angled it so Bellamy could best read it with her. _“I had observed— although I did not often make use of the fact— that there were times when a touch could say things that words could not.”_

Bellamy thought of his hands on Murphy’s face while they were both splitting at the seams, and of Murphy’s fingers curled in Bellamy’s shirt while they were meant to be letting go of whatever they had. Whatever they’d wanted to have.

Bellamy had never had any real friends besides Octavia, so maybe he just didn’t understand. But Murphy saved his life and brought him books, and that was more than anyone had ever done for him.

So he cared. Of course he cared. 

He hoped that even though he was angry, and even though Murphy was gone and maybe they’d never see each other again and maybe he’d forget about Bellamy tomorrow, that he knew from the way he wiped his tears away that Bellamy cared whether the young and troubled Commander cried alone in the smokehouse.

And Bellamy cared that Lexa let him read murder mysteries over her shoulder from where he sat on the windowsill above the cushioned bench beneath it. So he waited a few pages, and then tentatively reached out to take a bit of her long brown hair in his hand, and began working a braid into it.

“What are you doing?” she asked without looking up from her book, even though it was obvious she was rereading the same paragraph, unfocused now.

“Braiding,” he answered simply, thinking of rain pattering on the window again. “I used to do Octavia’s hair. It’ll look nice, promise.”

Lexa smiled, soft in her puffy sweater that was covered in nits. “I only like girls, you know.”

Bellamy pretend to gag, and Lexa bursted into laughter that she muffled with her sleeve. “Please,” he muttered. “You're too bossy anyway."

“So if you’re not pursuing me, I suppose this means you’re trying to be friends,” she said in that ceaselessly formal way of hers.

Bellamy smiled— left to the middle, right to the middle, left to the middle— and answered, “Yeah, I guess it does. Is it working?”

Lexa held her book to her chest for a moment, and then shook her head very slightly so as not to ruin Bellamy’s work. “I guess it is,” she replied, returning to her pages and sinking down against the windowsill, comfortable. “First time making friends on purpose?”

Bellamy huffed a laugh. “Late bloomer.”

“I understand,” said Lexa, and reached up to hesitantly rest her long fingers against the top of Bellamy’s hand, like she was speaking with touch too.

Bellamy blinked, staring at the place where her skin left his warm. “The Ark really screwed us up, huh?”

“I don’t know,” replied Lexa, looking like she was hearing the pattering rain too. “I think maybe everyone has a hard time learning to be a child again.”

Lexa wasn't a prisoner, and had her own reasons for sneaking onto the Dropship. Bellamy imagined she must have been running from something too, and he hoped she had found somewhere to stop by now.

Bellamy finished the braid, and before thinking better of it asked aloud, “Does anyone have a hair tie?”

“Are you finally trying a bun?” asked Jasper from the cards table without looking up from his hand, to which a couple of others laughed.

“Yeah, right,” Bellamy muttered, fighting off a grin.

“Just look at Finn,” suggested Jasper. “He’s stunning!”  


“Huh?” asked Finn, turning around on the piano bench so the little half-up bun in his hair wiggled. Bellamy frowned. It looked kind of goofy, actually, but Finn was handsome and unpredictable and a little dumb, so he could pretty much do whatever he wanted with his hair and clothes. Now that they had the freedom to do such a thing, at least.

“Why don’t you try it, if you like it so much?” asked Octavia, kicking her feet as she lied in her bunk and wrote her eighth diary entry of the day.

“Not flattering for my face shape,” Jasper replied, at which Harper began laughing so hard she had to place her cards down and thunk her head on the table.

Bellamy smiled, still pinching Lexa’s braid, as he watched the delinquents laugh and chatter and play, some even cuddled up in bed together or smuggling snacks into the room to pass out to the others.

He could have never given them up. Not for anything. He couldn’t feel guilty for it, and couldn’t harbor anger towards the Commander for doing the same for his own people, in the beginning.

With sudden clarity that they had both done their best, Bellamy felt at peace with the cuts on his chest, the nightmares he had, the choices he’d made.

And most of all he hoped Murphy, who had showed him all the kindness he could and more, was okay. Wherever he was.

Someone tapped his shoulder, having approached quietly as he daydreamed, and Bellamy shook his head to find Maya smiling nervously at him, jittery as always.

“Here,” she said, and offered him a thick black hair tie between trembling fingers. Bellamy took it and finally finished Lexa’s hair, who pulled the braid in front of her face and inspected it cross-eyed, looking for any hairs out of place.

“Thanks,” Bellamy answered, but Maya stayed, wringing her hands. “…Maya?”

“I have to show you something,” she blurted, and grabbed Bellamy by his outstretched hand, tugging him out of the dark windowsill.

As he was wont to do when women dragged him around unfamiliar places, Bellamy followed silently, bewildered, down a number of hallways and into the elevator, and another hallway still. 

In front of a large metal door connected to the med-bay Maya froze at last, placing her hand on the door’s handle and looking down at the floor, onto which a teardrop stained the concrete a dark gray.

“Maya,” he said gently, “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

She swallowed tightly, sniffling as she looked up and met his stare with shiny eyes. “You just need to see for yourself,” she croaked. “But I want you to know, I never wanted this. It was Cage Wallace’s project. But now that we have a black blood sample we can synthesize those proteins and design a serum based on what we have of Dr. Franco’s earlier research, and then we can finally metabolize radiation and— and this will all be over. We’ll see the sun, and it’ll all be over, okay?” She covered her mouth when she was done talking, and tears rolled over her knuckles.

“Black blood?” Bellamy murmured, his eyes widening as recognition struck. Nightblood. “Maya. Open the door.”

“I’m sorry,” Maya whimpered one last time, and pushed open the door.

Cages on cages on cages, rattling as thin hands slipped away into the blue dark. Machines whirring, red tubes, black tubes, leaking onto the floor.

Bellamy’s breathing stopped in the doorway of that dark room, as he looked down the pale length of a girl’s spine, her body hanging by the feet from chains in the ceiling. To the right, on the other side of the whirring machine whose disconnected tubes were blowing bubbles into a black puddle on the floor, hung a boy whose back was painted with a half-moon and three five-point stars, and an infinity symbol covering a small scar on the back of his neck.

Bellamy rushed forward, bumping the hanging body as he moved past it and turned to kneel before it, taking the boy’s upside-down face in his hands to steady him.

_“Murphy,”_ Bellamy whispered, his chest tight, his hands shaking, his vision blurring as he took in the soft crying around him, the echoing moans of pain, the dribble of nightblood along his jaw and temple drying from the puncture wound in Murphy’s neck, whose unmoving eyes were half-open from gravity and pink from the air.

“What the _fuck _is this?!” he snapped at Maya as she wept, holding tighter to Murphy’s face. “_Fuck. _Help me get them down. Now!”

Maya rushed forward to hold down a button on the machine that lowered both of the Grounders to the floor, and hurried to unstrap Clarke’s ankles, guiding her legs gently to the concrete. Bellamy worked to do the same for Murphy, and once he held Murphy’s head in his lap, the boy’s eyes fluttered at last, turning Bellamy to stone.

Murphy’s gaze moved slowly over Bellamy’s face between rapid blinks, eyes dry, before scanning what he could of the dark room: the piping along the ceiling, the tall machine that loomed beside them, beeping softly in protest of its unhooked tubes, and the chains and cuffs dangling overhead. Then Murphy looked back at Bellamy, and smiled weakly.

“Like your shirt.”

Bellamy gave a breathy laugh, dropping his head to Murphy’s chest. His heartbeat was slow, but sped up as Bellamy wrapped an arm around Murphy and pulled him closer, letting him lean on Bellamy’s torn chest.

“You okay?”

Murphy gave a small, half of a nod against him, knocking the back of his hand gently against Bellamy’s arm. “Never better. Could use some air, maybe.”

“Me too,” Bellamy answered with a smile. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

Murphy, looking strangely peaceful, opened his mouth to respond just as a new, louder voice that was neither one of them, nor Clarke and Maya conversing quietly, interrupted.

“Maya, what in the world—“  


“Officer Lovejoy,” Maya answered, releasing Clarke’s arms like she didn’t want to touch the Grounder anymore and jumping to her feet, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. “The machine malfunctioned, I—“

The officer in the beige, padded uniform merely shook his head, and sensing trouble, Bellamy slowly lowered Murphy to the floor and stood. 

“Save it,” said the officer. “They should have never let you work this closely with the outsiders. Get out of here,” he ordered, and then made to press a button on the radio pinned to his vest. “Requesting backup—“

“No!” Maya cried, leaping forward to try and jerk the radio off of his clothes. The officer grabbed her wrist as she tugged at his equipment, and his rough hold made her wince and cry out.

Bellamy stepped over Murphy, grabbed the officer by the throat, and kicked the door shut behind them. “I wish I could say I was sorry about this,” Bellamy said quietly as the man grappled desperately at his arms, “But I’m not.” 

Maya yelped as Bellamy walked the officer across the room and slammed him against the cages, pushing down as hard as he could on the man’s windpipe, who fought him ferociously but did little more than make Bellamy want to squeeze harder.

The other Grounders cheered wildly, rattling their cages and chanting something that Bellamy didn’t understand.

After pushing at Bellamy’s arms and kicking him hadn’t worked, the officer wound his arm back to throw a punch. Then the Grounder in the cage they were fighting against reached quickly through the holes in his cage, grabbed the officer’s wrist with as much of his thin fingers as he could fit through, and held on for dear life.

As a last resort, the guard went to gouge Bellamy’s eyes with his free hand. Bellamy jerked his head back and bit down, hard, and let his teeth sink into the skin. The officer couldn’t have cried out even if he’d tried, but Bellamy imagined that it hurt. _Good._

And Bellamy pushed. And he tightened. And he pushed, until everything gave.

Officer Lovejoy went down slowly, sinking to the floor as Bellamy unclenched his fingers and released his bruised throat.

“Thank you,” he said to the Grounder with the dark bangs and the tattooed hands. The Grounder nodded, face etched with exhaustion and grim acceptance.

“Just get our Commander out of here.”

Bellamy grabbed his cage door in a promise. “I will. I’ll get all of you out.”

The Grounders eyes widened, and when he turned, Clarke gave him an approving nod, Maya was staring in horror, covering her mouth, and Murphy…

Murphy was looking at him like he’d hung the moon, and all three stars too.

Bellamy yanked the keyring off of the guard’s belt and looked back to Murphy, who stood on shaky legs until he could steady himself and walk to the middle of the room, where he stood under a fluorescent spotlight that made him look like a haunting that the Mountain Men would never escape.

“Maya, is there a way out of here?”

“Through the med-bay,” she answered, voice trembling. “...Or the body chute.”

Murphy nodded, and turned to the cages. “En shof up. Taim yu breik au, gouthru shut won gon a taim. Den buk au.”

The Grounders moved closer to their cage doors and fell silent, and one by one, Bellamy unlocked their cages. Clarke helped the weaker Grounders out of their cages and walked them to the chute, acting as a crutch. Maya guarded the door, shakily pointing Lovejoy’s gun at it, and Murphy stood by the chute, sending each of his people off with a grasp of arms.

When the last Grounders made it out, Murphy kneeled by Lovejoy’s body and began stripping him of his clothes.

“What are you doing?” Bellamy asked, as Murphy slipped on a white button-up of his own. “Aren’t you gonna run?”

Murphy struggled with the buttons, his hands trembling with weakness. Bellamy moved closer, gently lowering Murphy’s hands and doing the buttons himself.

“We have to get your people out too, don’t we?”

Bellamy paused, looking up to meet Murphy’s red-ringed eyes. “How do you know they’re here?”

“Because you wouldn’t still be here if they weren’t,” said Murphy. “You’re a terrible prisoner. The worst.”

Bellamy laughed quietly, doing up the last button and yanking the pants off of Lovejoy’s corpse, handing them to Murphy, at which he laughed and tugged them on quickly.

“Let’s go save our people, then,” agreed Bellamy, and at Murphy’s open, questioning gaze, Bellamy elbowed him gently. “You’re one of us now, aren’t you?”

“More like you’re mine,” Murphy scoffed, and then chanced a nervous look at Bellamy’s expression that betrayed his nonchalance about making them the thirteenth clan after all.

Bellamy stilled, hope filling up his chest to every edge, blooming like a five-point star. “Murphy—“

“Celebrate later,” said Murphy, stepping into Lovejoy’s heavy boots and stomping toward the big metal door, moving like he had a red cape flowing behind him.  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”


	13. of the valley of death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everybody wants to rule the world — lorde
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, graphic violence, murder]

** _“You risk your life for nothing. **Turn around and escape while you still can. Then we will wage war on the Mountain, and obliterate the Skypeople while they’re defenseless.”** _**

Murphy ignored him, wishing, like most days, that he could turn it off.

Bellamy turned a corner and silently knocked a guard out with the butt of Lovejoy’s repurposed weapon, and yanked a matching weapon from that guard’s holster and gave it to Maya. 

The girl fumbled it but held it in front of her, shaky arms extended and taut. Murphy didn’t understand the things, these looking like shorter, smaller versions of the weapons the Skypeople had at their camp, and only hoped that was the right way to hold it as he and Clarke were unarmed.  


“Quick detour,” whispered Bellamy, “Let’s get one of you a weapon.”

They came upon a room with foggy, glass walls, where Bellamy darted out and pulled a move that made Murphy go crazy inside and knocked the guard on duty off of his feet, so Bellamy could take his weapon and knock him unconscious, too.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Murphy complimented as the four of them slipped inside the room, Murphy simply following Bellamy’s lead, for once. The strange little room was decorated with a long, polished desk, stuffed bookshelves, and an ornate longsword hung up on the wall.

“Guard training and a lot of martial arts movies,” Bellamy explained, quirking his mouth in a grin. Then he yanked the sword down from the wall and held it out to Murphy. “Here.”

Murphy took the sword, twirling it in his palms, hefting it from hand to hand, and then raised his brows. “Yeah, this’ll do.”

“Like it?” asked a voice that wasn’t Bellamy’s, and the four of them turned to the door. That wide-mouthed man was stood in the doorway, face lax as if he were simply amused.  “It’s a Japanese court sword. _Kazari tachi_. Only the highest ranking nobles had them.” He looked proud of himself, like a preening little boy.

Murphy shrugged, unsheathing the sword. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d say I’m a pretty high-ranking noble, wouldn’t you?” he asked the others, who had no time to answer, as Murphy had already stepped forward and plunged the sword into the doctor’s chest.

He was cocky. Murphy didn’t like that.

The slimy man’s eyes went wide, and he reached up shakily for the blossom of blood blooming out around his precious sword.

“Had to do the honors myself,” Murphy explained, at which the doctor’s eyes fluttered in recognition and despair. He yanked the sword back out with a squelch, leaving the man’s body to crumple to the floor. 

Bellamy blinked. “That was… quick.”

“He just liked to hear himself talk,” Murphy muttered and stepped over the fresh corpse, leading Bellamy, Clarke, and a somehow-still-quietly-crying Maya out of the weird glass room. “Normally I’d love the drama, but we’re a little pressed for time.”

Apparently in agreement, the four broke into a run.

A ride in an elevator that moved without a turning wheel and two hallways later, they moved into the first of the four rooms that held the Skypeople, and Murphy held onto the doorframe, swaying, as Bellamy gave his first speech of many.

“But…we’re safe here,” pleaded Jasper, holding a pack of cards against his stomach like he was afraid to let go of them. “Why would we leave?”

Bellamy blinked, and shook his head as some of the others murmured in agreement. “They’re murderers, Jas. Why would you want to stay?”

“Seems like everyone’s a murderer down here,” he said softly, looking down at the floor. “At least we’re not getting speared.”

Bellamy stepped forward to hold Jasper by the shoulders, and Murphy was filled with both awe and disdain for the gentle way Bellamy led his people. “The Grounders are gone,” he said, loud enough for all the Skypeople in the room to hear., while still meeting Jasper’s big, forlorn eyes. “Who do you think they’ll drain while they replenish their supply?”

That was enough to get everyone moving, albeit hesitantly, with their heads hung.

After protests in all three of the next rooms, Bellamy finally threw up his hands. “Either you come with us, or you stay here and die,” he snapped, and then marched to the end of the hall, a hundred mourning teenagers flanking him, regardless of his attitude.

He was complicated, that Bellamy kom Skaikru. Impulsive and irritable, but trustworthy and decisive, and everyone knew it. Murphy couldn’t help but feel a little envious.

At the front of the crowd, Maya untangled herself from a teary-eyed Jasper and approached the two of them, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry for all of this. I— I really hope you make it out. I’ll see if I can go distract some of the guards, but that’s all I can do now.”

“You’ve done enough,” Bellamy answered, despite the hatred he clearly harbored for her people. “Thank you, Maya.” He shook her hand, and the frizzy-haired girl vanished around the corner, off to buy them a little time.

“Now,” said Bellamy, turning to stare down the long corridor. “How the hell are we gonna sneak a hundred people out of here?”

Murphy shrugged, and twirled his sword. “Who said we were sneaking?”

They moved through the bunker like an ocean; Murphy, the whitecaps that sliced through everyone who stood in their path, and the Skypeople, the water that drowned them, that trampled the bodies under their feet. They linked arms around the edges of the mass so that no one could be snatched away, and they were unstoppable.

It was almost too easy getting back to the blue room, overwhelming the four guards staring down at Lovejoy’s forgotten body and reeling over all the empty cages. The Skypeople unlinked, and an ocean became a swarm as they bore down on the guards, stomping, kicking, punching, strangling, fighting for their lives again.

Once the guards were either dead or out cold, all that stood between them and escape was the mass of Skypeople flooding out of the door into the medbay, unprotected, and whatever came after the body chute.

Murphy sheathed his sword and made to push through the crowd, but was stopped by a hand on his elbow. “Where are you going?” Bellamy asked.

“Someone needs to take up the rear,” answered Murphy. “I’ll meet you down there.”

It was unlikely that anything would go wrong; Murphy was mostly upright, had done well enough so far at cutting through the Mountain’s security like butter, and he had a very, very fancy sword. He took Bellamy’s forearm in his hand regardless, and Bellamy took his back, clutching him tight.

“Murphy,” he said firmly, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Murphy muttered. “Keep your pants on.”

At that and the scene around them, Bellamy’s dark eyes danced with mirth and gratitude and all things sparkling. Then Murphy was being yanked forward, their linked arms between their stomachs, Murphy’s face against his shoulder, Bellamy’s wide hand pressed between Murphy’s shoulder blades. Murphy stared at nothing with wide eyes, feeling Bellamy’s warm seep into his cold.

A _hug._

“You’ll be alone back there,” Bellamy said into his ear over the chatter of the crowd. “Don’t die.”

There was something Sheidheda used to say before he hated Murphy, and before Murphy learned to be brave. A mantra, to be spoken to oneself before every battle.

“Though I walk through the valley of death—” Murphy recited, tilting his face up to catch Bellamy’s growing smile, “—I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.”

Bellamy released him clumsy and slow like their limbs were painted with honey, and Murphy nodded sharply, heat rising to his face as he backed into the crowd. His vision swam, too, and he hoped that was just another side-effect of _hugs._

“Through the body chute and then follow me. I don’t know where we’re going, but don’t stop, and don’t look back,” Bellamy commanded, and then put his legs into the chute, one after the other, and slid down to whatever came after.

Murphy’s sword had taken the power of three more guards by the time the line had shrunk down to nothing, a hundred Skypeople back in the world.

When all that was left was him and and his Fleimkepa, Murphy heard one last brave, beige-vested guard charging down the hallway, boots pounding fast and hard.

“I’ll take care of the straggler,” suggested Murphy, shooing Clarke toward the chute, who had ushered all of the Skypeople through with that gentle firmness that Murphy so loved.

“Alright, I’ll see you down there,” she agreed easily, and Murphy never stopped feeling the bud of himself blossom a little more when she admitted he could take care of himself. Then she climbed halfway into the chute, looked up, and grinned. “I’m proud of you, Murphy.”

He smiled gently as she disappeared down the chute, watching her go.

He’d done the right thing today. A good thing.

Murphy turned, vision swirling as he swayed forward, and found himself looking down the barrel of one those dark, L-shaped little weapons.

“This is a loaded gun, kid. I suggest you don’t move,” said the guard.

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do?” asked Murphy, twirling his sword. “Point at me to death?”

Those dumb fucking bloodsuckers and their useless little hunks of metal, he thought, as he kicked up and knocked the weapon out of her hand, and then brought his sword down, blinking as her blood splattered over his face and borrowed clothes.

Murphy wiped his eyes and stepped halfway into the chute, prepared to bid the blue room goodbye, just as movement near a tray of tools caught his eye.

A ghastly woman crawled out from underneath the tray’s curtain, holding out a hand to Murphy.

Azgeda tattoos. Murphy scowled.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t leave.”

He sighed, and threw his legs out of the chute again, approaching the woman on the floor. “Why would you hide?”

She stared at the floor, matted hair hanging in her face. “I thought maybe you would kill me, but if I don’t come with you I’ll die in here for sure.”

“Why— why would I kill you?”

“I’m Azgeda,” she said as if it were obvious. “We’re at war.”

Murphy frowned. Maybe she'd been banished, or had a lapse in memory, or could see the future. “We haven’t been at war for seven years. Azgeda was part of the coalition,” he explained, and then with a huff added, “Up until recent developments. Either way, I'd be a dick to leave you here. Come on.”

“Oh,” answered the woman simply, and said nothing more as he helped her into the chute. 

“You’re safe with us,” said Murphy, releasing her arm. “Go meet the others. I’m right behind you.”

He watched her slide down the chute and crawl out of the padded mine cart below it, and supposed he should do one last check of the hall to see if they were being followed yet.

When he turned around it was an unsteady thing, and he grabbed onto another rolling tray of tools for support, closing his eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

When he opened them again, the last guard who had fallen under his sword had turned onto her back and was pointing her gun at him again.

She couldn’t even stand, let alone attack him. Murphy rolled his eyes, dropped his sword down the chute, and turned to climb into it at last.

Then the woman smiled.


	14. of the march down the mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> help — hurts
> 
> [chapter cw // blood, implied death]

It was morning when they escaped; a cold, beautiful morning, the kind where the sun melts through the early fog and the birds chirp just loud enough to remind you how big the world is.

It was almost comical the way the hundred all skidded to a stop, at the place where the tunnel ended in a massive intake door that swung open to the outside, to freedom, where all the Grounders stood in the grassy clearing, waiting for their Commander to join them.

No one was armed. Everyone was tired.

The boy with the tattooed fingers and the dark hair had evidently taken charge, speaking with the other Grounders and then stepping to the in-between of the two peoples.

“Truce,” he said. “We have no orders to attack your people, and you freed us. You can come out.”

Bellamy, despite his hate and his pride and mistrust, believed him.

So together they stood in the clearing, and waited for the Commander to join them.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“I wonder if it’s a poor idea to just stand out here in the open,” suggested Lexa, staring at the intake door next to Bellamy. “Maybe we should move into the trees.”

Bellamy shook his head, still staring at the door in the mountain. “They’ve lost too much manpower, and we’d outnumber them even if they hadn’t. They know anyone they send out here is getting trampled to death by the mob of their making, gun or no.”

Then two women emerged from the dark, one limping, her arm around a supportive Clarke’s shoulders.

Lexa took a step as if to meet them halfway, and then rushed ahead of Bellamy as he began walking towards Clarke, taking the weak woman from her and lowering her to the ground where many of the other exhausted, bled Grounders lied. 

“Are you okay?” Lexa asked Clarke, voice hesitant. Clarke nodded, smiling softly at the stoic girl’s concern.

“I’m okay. Just… tired,” she admitted, following obediently as Lexa kneeled and pulled Clarke to the grass by her wrist. “I was waiting in the tunnels for Murphy, when…”  


“Echo,” murmured the gaunt woman resting next to Bellamy, eyelids low and dark as if she meant to fall asleep at any moment.

“When Echo caught up with me and said he’d helped her down the chute, and that he said he’d be right behind her,” Clarke explained, holding her hand to her forehead and swaying forward where she sat. “But he didn’t come, and we thought we heard a noise from one of the other tunnels, so we…” She trailed off, rubbing at her eyes.

Bellamy worked his jaw, staring at the door again.

“He’s coming,” he said firmly, tilting his chin up. Any minute now.

So they waited.

And they waited.

And they waited.

After ten minutes had passed, Lexa stood and came to stand by Bellamy’s side once more. Then, softer than she usually spoke, said, “Bellamy, we can’t wait here forever.”

“He’s coming. Just five more minutes, and then we’ll go.”

So Lexa waited five more minutes.

“Bellamy,” she said again, softer still. “We have to go.”

“He’s _coming.”_

Lexa left him, then, to converse with the de facto leader of the Grounders, and after about five more minutes they began to rise, all one-hundred and fifty of their weary and ragtag group preparing to wind their way back down the mountain. To go home.

As Bellamy stared at the arching metal door nestled in the mountain, topped by thin fog that almost shone golden under the morning sun and played background to the flitting of dust and gnats that looked every bit like little floating stars— he could just barely imagine that it led somewhere lovely.

Then he turned, roughly smearing a rogue tear away with the heel of his palm, and blended into the forlorn crowd. It was a funeral procession of people who were all mourning something, or someone, moving silently over the dewey grass.

Then a soft, broken voice spoke. “Murphy?”

At Clarke’s whisper they all turned, and there he was.

Murphy, stepping out of the fog like an apparition and letting the intake door swing shut behind him. His white clothes were splattered with blood, and he dragged his sword behind him, its carving of the dirt the only sound on the mountain.

Then, slowly, Murphy raised up his sword. _Victory._

The crowd broke into cheers, mostly the Grounders and some of the hundred just wanting a reason to let it all out, each of them roaring and clapping and with raised, pounding fists. Bellamy couldn’t have wiped the massive grin off of his face if he’d tried, as the iron vice around his heart unclenched.

And then Murphy’s smile faded slowly, and what little Bellamy could see of his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

_“Heda!” _someone shouted, and the crowd rushed forward like a stampede towards the little red and white heap of Commander.

But Bellamy couldn’t move, his feet stuck to the dew.

“Move back!” shouted Lexa from somewhere inside the massive crowd, followed shortly by Clarke’s trembling yell of the same order in her own tongue.

Bellamy stayed still as the first of the fights broke out: a Skyperson shoving a Grounder to see what was happening. He stayed still as the second broke out: a Grounder screaming at another Grounder, pointing at her, the gaunt woman that Murphy had stayed behind to help. He stayed still as they all broke out fighting, shoving one another, shouting accusations, needlessly reminding each other of their warcrimes.

“When we go to war with Azgeda and the Skypeople—” said one of the Grounders, loud enough to be heard by all. “—You will wish Heda had left you all to die in the Mountain, instead of dying to save your _worthless_ lives.”

At this the crowd erupted into intense argument and fury, and the mass loosened and widened around Murphy, and Bellamy could almost see him, unmoving. He was lying on his side with most of his face turned into the grass, Clarke sitting at his back with fingers on his pulse point.

Then, Murphy’s mouth moved.

_“I’m not dead,” _he whispered, but no one heard him.

Bellamy took a step that felt like he’d lifted a thousand pounds before he broke into a run, elbowing his way through the crowd until he was kneeling at Murphy’s side.

“He’s alive,” Clarke laughed, allowing Bellamy to pull Murphy into his arms. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and he’s tired, but he’ll be okay. He just needs water and rest.”

“You were drained too, and so were many of the other Grounders,” Lexa reminded her, voice laden with concern. “So why…?”

“Some of us might not make it back without passing out either, but natblidas are prone to bleeding out faster. It’s just the way they are.”

“Black blood cells take longer to regenerate?”

Clarke stared at her blankly, uncomprehending, and then winced as someone shouted especially loud and again at the sharp sound of a fist against skin. “We need to get back to camp, but I can’t— they won’t listen to us—“

“Then let’s get moving,” Bellamy decided, hefting Murphy into his arms, one underneath his knees and the other supporting his back, and rose slowly to his feet. “They’ll follow, or they won’t.”

And follow they did, falling silent as Bellamy led the march down the mountain, supported by Clarke and Lexa as he carried Murphy precariously down steep declines. 

Then, once they were comfortably on the move, Clarke turned, walking backwards. “Em kik rauns. He's alive,” she announced, and a kind of awe-filled silence followed, only until Clarke’s expression split with a smile. “Heda feva kik raun!”

_“Heda feva kik raun!” _they roared back, cheering with delight, slapping each other on the chests and grabbing hands.

Bellamy had no idea what they were saying, but smiled too. They hit a flat clearing off the side of the mountain and made leisurely towards the east, where the sun was rising slowly and steadily, guiding them home.

“Bellamy?” asked Murphy’s voice, weak and quiet. Clarke reached out to hold Murphy’s knee, crooked over Bellamy’s arm, with a strong and silent kind of comfort.

“Is this our thing now?” Bellamy asked in turn, keeping his gaze out on the rising sun because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he looked down. “Scaring the shit out of each other?”

Murphy took a moment, and then brushed the back of his hand in a lazy arc across Bellamy’s chest before letting it fall to his own stomach again. “Maybe _you _should have played damsel in distress,” he murmured, “And then you wouldn’t have to walk all the way back to the camp.”

Bellamy smiled, squinting as the sun gleamed into his sure stare. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time. Think you could carry me?”

Murphy hummed a soft sound of affirmation, gently walking his fingers a few steps up Bellamy’s ribs without ever moving his hand from his stomach. It was an absent, featherlight touch, and it made Bellamy feel like pulling Murphy closer, despite the fact that there was no room left between them to try. “One-handed, over my head. Sadly, it’s against our way for the Commander to carry peasants.”

“Is that what it says in the handbook?”

Murphy nodded against Bellamy’s chest, still lying in his arms with his eyes closed. “Verbatim,” he said quietly, before his breathing came short again and his fingers slipped, slow, from Bellamy’s chest.

“Hey, just get some rest,” urged Bellamy. “I got you.”

Then Murphy hummed again, shifting slightly in Bellamy’s arms to tilt a little closer. “He _does_ care,” he joked softly, warm breath sneaking through Bellamy’s shirt to whisper against his healing wounds, before Murphy slipped easily into sleep.

Bellamy grinned as Clarke let out a giggle, eavesdropping, and once he was sure Murphy was asleep, he dared to look down at him.

Though his smooth, pale skin was splattered with red, and though his eyes were shadowed and puffy with exhaustion, Bellamy thought him handsome and soft in his sleep, watching the morning sun cast a glittering sheen over the dark curves of the tattoo bending around his eyes, and noticing the way his eyelashes laid against his cheeks.

Yes, the Commander had a strong, sharp face, all bone and angles that insisted, “You should be afraid of me, and if you aren’t, you will cut yourself on me.” But Bellamy thought Murphy handsome, and thought him soft, even if he had already been cut on those bones.

And he thought him brave, and more than that, kind; for staying behind to save Bellamy’s people. Risking his life for them, even after what Bellamy had done.

Bellamy tightened his hold on Murphy, feeling the beginnings of an ache in his arms and knowing he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t put Murphy down or hand him off to anyone else.

“What happens when we get back to camp?”

He turned to glance at Lexa on his right, raising a brow.

“You, the Commander, us. What happens?”

Bellamy blinked, shifting Murphy to keep his grip. “I guess I’m taking him back to Polis once he’s better. Or, he’s taking me. Either way, we’re going.”

“What about our ultimatum?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” he teased, at which Lexa returned a flat, impatient look. “We’re the thirteenth clan.”

She searched his eyes, mouth opening to give her a frozen expression of disbelief. “We got it?”

“We got it.”

Lexa’s face split into a grin, then, and she looked toward the sun to pretend as if her smile, which would be an acknowledgement of Bellamy's success and cunning, was no more than part of a full-face squint. They walked in joyful silence a little while longer, focusing on their path down a rocky hill, before Lexa’s smile melted away.

“What happens when the Mountain Men recover?"

Bellamy thought of Murphy and Clarke hanging from the ceiling, their blood pooling on the floor, of all those Grounders folded up in cages. "Let's hope we wipe them out before they get the chance."

Lexa blinked in surprise, before her face hardened in agreement. Then she leaned forward to look at Clarke on the other side of Bellamy. "Do you think the Commander will agree?"

Clarke nodded. "Easily."

"And you, Clarke?" asked Lexa. "What about living in harmony?

Whether by the trick of the light or pure hatred, her gentle blue eyes looked a steely gray in the morning light. "Some people don't deserve harmony," she said icily, and Bellamy knew they would go to war.

With over a hundred people at his back, all of them his and Murphy's and Clarke's and Lexa's alike, Bellamy knew he had finally gotten the power he itched for and too, that he would finally get to end the war that had been crawling under his skin.


	15. of the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on fire — awolnation
> 
> [chapter cw // alcohol]

When Murphy woke again there was a hand around his arm, tugging. “I am sorry Breikheda, but he is _our _Commander. He stays here.”

The arms held him tighter. “It’s not safe, what don’t you understand about that? No one can find him.”

The hand pulled again. “Let us worry about this. He should be with his people as he recovers.”

“His_ people_ have turned against him. What if he doesn’t trust you? I won’t leave him here,” argued the arms.

“And he should trust _you?” _snapped the hand.

Ah, Murphy thought, he knew what this was about, and raised his hand to brush Bellamy’s chest and get his attention. “Boys, please,” he sighed, “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

“Heda, you’re awake,” said the subject who Murphy didn’t feel like opening his eyes to see. “We’ve reached the Trikru territories, and the village of Rederik would be honored to make room for you and your Fleimkepa here as you both recover.”

Rederik was a tiny village of only about fifty, and the man was right: these were his people, and the villagers in Rederik knew nothing about what was happening in Polis. It would be safe to stay there.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Murphy said in a voice still rough with exhaustion, “But I’m going with the Skypeople. We have political matters to attend to.”

Reluctantly, the leader of Rederik released his arm and bid his goodbyes alongside the other members of Trikru, who would stay there to eat and rest before making their way back to their homes.

“Political matters, huh?” Bellamy asked as they carried on walking, and Murphy, at last, peeked a tired eye open to look up at him. His black curls swayed as he walked, and Murphy was so close he could have counted his freckles. Bellamy tried to glance down as if he felt Murphy staring, so he quickly shut his eyes and tucked his head against Bellamy’s chest once more.

“Have to get to know my thirteenth clan, don’t I?” he mumbled, eyes falling closed.

Bellamy stayed quiet, and only answered once Murphy was up to his chin in the black of sleep. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

He woke up again to a soft sort of cold, a chill that laid over his skin like a dew. There was a pattering sound, like rain, and when Murphy opened his eyes he saw the shadows of droplets of water above him, rolling down some kind of thin but strong material, the color red all around him.

He laid on a bed of what felt like leaves and fronds wrapped in a blanket with a quilt of furs pulled up to his shoulders. With his limbs and eyes still tired, stomach gnawing at itself, and his head fuzzy, Murphy crawled out from the warm nest he’d been tangled up inside of and made to inspect his surroundings.

He stood, stepping onto the thicker bit of canvas that acted as the tent’s floor in a pair of warm, gray socks that were large enough that the heels of them sagged off of the back of his ankles. Too, he wore a pair of baggy black cargo pants and a beige t-shirt, one that was riddled with tiny, moth-eaten holes. He turned his hands over, and noticed his skin had been scrubbed clean of blood.

On the folding table were a few trinkets: a knife carved from junk metal, two short pencils, a yellowing notebook that was falling apart at the seams, and some blue thing with a clear lens at the butt of it.

Murphy flicked open the notebook, admiring the swirly handwriting, through which the lines and letters flowed like a stream. He touched the tattoo around his eye, tracing one of the shapes written in the notebook with his other hand. He hoped his tattoo wasn’t a Gonasleng letter. That would suck.

He lost interest with the notebook and picked up the blue thing, turning it around in his hands. It was kind of like a staff or a mace, and as he hefted it he surmised that one could definitely do a head in with it. There was a squishy circle on the end opposite to the lens, and Murphy pushed down on it. Then he jumped as the lens lit up in a blast of white light that casted a bright circle on the tent canvas.

“It’s a flashlight.”

Murphy jumped again, dropping the _flashlight_ onto the table with a loud clatter and looking over his shoulder, only to find Bellamy ducking his way fully into the tent with a smile on his face.

“Hi,” he greeted, kicking off his muddy boots and shaking out his hair, sending water droplets flying.

Murphy stepped away from the table, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Hi,” he answered, watching Bellamy shuck off his jacket onto the back of the chair in the corner and move to dig around in one of the covered crates underneath the table.

“Here,” he said at last, tossing something wrapped in foil at Murphy. “Rations. Sorry it’s not much of a feast.”

Murphy held onto the pack of wrapped-up food for a moment, staring.

“I’ve already eaten,” Bellamy explained. “I was waiting for you to wake up. Well, not… _waiting._ But— anyways. There’s some water next to the bed, if you— yeah.”

Murphy sat slowly on the crinkly bed, raising a brow as he unwrapped his food. Bellamy stared back, face twisted up strangely, before sighing and dropping his shoulders.

“I’ve never— you know— hosted anyone. Sorry,” he said, digging a couple of blankets out from one of his crates and spreading them out on the floor next to Murphy. Then he snatched one of the two crinkly pillows off of Murphy’s bed and moved it onto his pallet, and collapsed.

“Long day?” Murphy asked, giving a little grin as Bellamy tilted his head on the pillow to give him the stink eye.

“Long two days,” Bellamy grumbled, and a berry fell out of Murphy’s mouth. “Yeah, we had to camp for the night and we just got back here a few hours ago. You slept through all of it. My arms are killing me.” In demonstration he tossed his arms up, floppy and useless, and let them fall to his sides again. “I’ve been sentenced to nap time by Lexa since I dropped one of the rain barrels.”

And suddenly, Murphy felt like curling up into a ball and never moving.

He’d fainted in front of everyone, and been carried for two days by the Skyperson as he slept. Who knows what he said while he was out of it, and now he was in Bellamy’s tent, eating his food, lying on his bed.

**_“Weak,”_**snarled Sheidheda. **_“Now they all know you’re _weak.”**

Murphy cringed, putting his food to the side and dropping his head to his knees, linking his hands over his neck in humiliation.

**_“It’s okay to be taken care of,”_**Bekka said softly. **_“Just say thank you.”_**

“Thank you,” Murphy murmured, scrubbing his face with his hands and taking them away only to find Bellamy looking at him. “Thank you for all of this.”

Bellamy’s expression softened slightly, from exhaustion and irritation to something else. “Thank _you _for saving us. After everything I did…”

“Let’s just call it even, yeah?” suggested Murphy, kicking a foot out to playfully poke Bellamy’s leg.

“Yeah,” Bellamy agreed. “Even.” Then he pulled one of his blankets up to his chin and rolled over, putting his broad back to Murphy. Murphy sank slowly down too, picking at his food and staring up through the tent, watching the droplets collect into a dark shadow of a puddle and listening to the rain.

“Hey, Murphy?”

Murphy hummed in answer, entranced by the raindrops.

“What does ‘Breikheda’ mean?”

Murphy smiled. “The Commander of Freedom,” he replied. “You don’t get any political power, we’re just nice like that.”

And Bellamy laughed, and Murphy thought it might be one of his new favorite sounds, right next to autumn rain on the canvas of a tent.

The next morning they stood in the middle of camp, watching as delinquents scaled the camp wall with crates and ladders to add wooden spikes to the tops of the thick patchwork of colorful panels.

“I don’t know if it’ll help keep the Mountain Men out, but it’ll make everybody feel safer, at least,” Bellamy explained, and then grinned, distracted by what was happening near the rain barrels.

Clarke and Lexa were supposed to be taking potfuls of water from the barrels to be boiled, but had evidently ditched their pots to flick handfuls of water at each other, laughing and ducking behind the barrels to avoid their attacker.

“Lexa wasting resources to play around,” mused Bellamy. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Clarke’s a terrible influence,” Murphy muttered, and then snickered as Bellamy sent a dubious look his way, both of them knowing good and well that Clarke was the most influential of the very few reasons Murphy had maintained power for as long as he had.

She had always been by his side, as Commander Somer’s Fleimkepa had died with her, a stern, elderly man that Murphy had always dreaded having as a Fleimkepa when he imagined winning the conclave and ascending the throne. Then his darkest fantasy came true and the Fleimkepa he received was the same age as him, the prestigious daughter of a master healer and an esteemed shaman who had chosen her path and began her studies early, and who excelled above other aspiring Fleimkepas.

She advised Murphy, always so wise for her age, but she also played games with him, and petted his hair when he cried. Clarke was often alone and overwhelmed herself, even if she could visit her mother on one of the lower floors whenever she felt the need. But they fought often, especially after the shaman died. For the longest time the two of them shared a bed, Clarke’s annoying, kicking feet keeping Murphy’s warm at night, until they turned fifteen together and each demanded privacy, space.

Some nights Murphy wished they were still fourteen, tangled up together and telling secrets. But he was supposed to be happy that Clarke had developed hobbies and made friends during their travels as they grew up, even when he couldn’t seem to do the same.

He smiled, watching her eyes twinkle as Lexa picked wet, stringy strands of hair off of her own face.

**_“Maybe she’ll leave you alone now,”_** said Hinko. **_“Well, not leave you. Oh no, don’t freak out. I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant she would give you some space!”_**

“I know,” Murphy answered, “It’s okay, Hinko, take it easy.”

Then he turned back to the wall, and felt Bellamy’s eyes on the side of his face. He turned to meet his stare, and Bellamy blinked.

“Sorry. I just— Hinko?”

“A Commander,” Murphy replied, tapping his head. “I’ll try and keep it down so you don’t look crazy by association.”

“Nah, that’s alright,” said Bellamy, scuffing the dirt with his boot and looking casual, like he didn’t mind at all. Murphy ducked his head and gave a little snort. Bellamy clearly thought he was nuts.

“Gentlemen!” cried a familiar voice, drawing their gazes. Jasper stumbled up with his goggles halfway up his forehead like he’d been working on something, and struggled under the weight of a keg. “Monty’s helping me perfect a brilliant new batch so we need to clean this baby out. Interested in some leftover Unity Day brew? In hindsight, four kegs of unity juice might have been a little much…”

“Monty?” Bellamy repeated.

Murphy perked up, recalling the name. “Sangeda kid, he’s a tech scavenger. Remember, you talked to him in the cage room?”

Bellamy raised his brows. “He stayed with us?”

Jasper shrugged. “On the trek he said he didn’t want to go home quite yet, so I told him he could stay with us. I hope that’s alright," he explained, and then gave a lovelorn kind of sigh. "He’s _so_ smart and nice, and _really_ funny. I think we’re really hitting it off.”

“‘Course it’s alright,” Bellamy answered, looking both bewildered and unsurprised, “But it’s a little early to be passing out alcohol. Can it wait until everyone gets their work done?”

“You know what?” Jasper exclaimed suddenly, holding up a finger as his goggles slipped further down his face. “We could have a party!”

Bellamy sighed, and Murphy’s interested was piqued. “What’s a ‘party?’” he asked, and Bellamy shook his head in defeat as Jasper’s eyes lit up.

“Bellamy… He’s never been to a party.”

“I heard him.”

“He’s never been to a _party, _Bellamy,” Jasper implored, leaning close with those eyes like sparkling saucers. “Now we _have_ to throw one! What’s stopping us? No more war! We have to celebrate!”

Celebrate? Murphy frowned. “You don’t have enough food for a celebration.”

“Parties aren’t about food, they’re about drinks and weed and dancing and friendship and romance and_ drinks!”_

“I wish they were about food,” Bellamy muttered.

Drinks sounded good to Murphy, and he’d figure out the other stuff as it came along. “A party, then. Let’s do it.”

“Hold on—” Bellamy started to protest just as Jasper looked prepared to beg him again, but Murphy held up his hand sharply and they both fell silent. _Worked like a charm._

“I am the Commander of the Thirteen Clans,” announced Murphy, “and I hereby decree tonight to be party time.”

Jasper hooted in delight before dropping to his knee and bowing before Murphy, while also saluting him. “Thank you, your most gracious highness,” he said solemnly, to which Murphy nodded, serious, before Jasper scrambled to his feet and ran off to tell everyone who would listen.

Bellamy, however, did little more than roll his eyes.

“I take it you’re not big on parties," Murphy collected.

“People getting drunk and sick and embarrassing themselves for hours at a time?” he replied, “Yeah, I think it’s stupid.”

Murphy grinned, taking a cheeky step closer to Bellamy, at which the Skyperson huffed and began fighting off a smile. 

“I think you need to loosen up a little, Breikheda,” Murphy suggested.

“That’s rich coming from you,” answered Bellamy, taking a grinning step away.

So Murphy took another step to the side too and elbowed him in the ribs, softly, so as not to disturb his healing wounds.

“One night,” he said. “One night of fun, and then we never have to do it again. Deal?”

Bellamy sighed, and at long last, nudged Murphy back. “Deal.”

**_“I think this will be good for you, Murphy,”_**said Bekka, and sounded like a person who might have been smiling. **_“Just be responsible.”_**

Always am, he thought. Always am.


	16. of the enigmatic virgin king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ribs — lorde
> 
> [chapter cw // references to sex, underage drinking, vomit, referenced death, referenced murder]

Bellamy had only ever been to one party, where he had stood guard and watched his little sister spin in circles beneath a sparkling blue mask before they took her away in cuffs, and killed his mother.

But this one was going alright.

Jasper’s unity juice was scattered about in tin cups in the hands of his partygoers, sloshing onto skin and grass and dirt. Someone had smuggled an “iPod” out of Mount Weather, and Raven had rigged the little device up to the speakers hooked to the Dropship’s communications screen to blast old pop music, and then, after a bit of whining from the delinquents, punk rock. A fire blazed in the center of it all. There wasn’t much to it, really, but everything seemed more fun with the air and the space and the freedom of earth in their hands, with the evening sun overhead and what still felt like the whole world to themselves, wall around them or not.

Bellamy sat by the fire and nursed his drink with Lexa, neither of them a big fan of getting wasted, or music, or partying in general.

Murphy and Clarke, however…

Clarke was dancing with guys and girls and neither alike, not gone but a little more than tipsy, twirling through the crowd and between partners with her hands in the air, golden hair flying. Bellamy almost felt sorry for Lexa, who stared longingly over the fire with dark eyes, her cheek propped on her hand, lovelorn.

And Murphy had lost his mind.

He was obviously drunk like he’d never been drunk before, and danced on the edge of the crowd like he was fighting. The only moves he knew seemed to punching, kicking, and elbowing the air, and sometimes he stood still and watched Clarke, who was clearly copying the other girls, but he never entered the throng or paired up with anyone else. Then he would quickly go back to his feverish, sharp-edged dancing, that which was so endearingly, horrifyingly _Murphy, _cranked up to times a million.

Bellamy didn’t realize he was smiling until Lexa nudged him, scooting closer on the log they shared. “Someone’s having fun.”

“Maybe a little too much fun,” Bellamy appraised, as Murphy accidentally elbowed a delinquent and laughed good-naturedly as he was shoved violently away.

“Such a mother hen,” Lexa sighed. “Maybe you should join him. He could teach you a thing or two.”

“And leave you to pine after Clarke and wallow in your solitude? What kind of friend would that make me?”

Lexa pushed him. “I am not… _pining _after— after_ Clarke.”_

“Right.” Bellamy nodded. “You’re studying her methods for when _you_ get out on the dance floor.”

Lexa pushed him again, hard, like she really did want him to go away. “I think it would boost morale if one of us joined in.”

“Don’t use _boosting morale_ against me,” Bellamy argued, grinding his heels into the dirt as Lexa shoved him, and feeling his heart speed up at the prospect of being forced within Murphy’s personal space bubble slash danger zone.

“Fine,” said Lexa, taking his cup from his hands. “I’ll get you a refill,” she said suddenly, which was nice and unexpected and made perfect sense as Bellamy saw Octavia bounding towards them. She gripped a cup in one hand and her new purple notebook from Mount Weather in the other, pages crinkling under her fingers, and spun to a stop next to him on the log, shoving her drink into his hands and pointing her gel pen at his chest.

“Big brother,” she said seriously, “Give me three numbers.”

“1, 6, 10,” he answered, trained from humoring Octavia’s multiple run-throughs of M.A.S.H. with him, her new favorite thing since befriending Fox, the bottomless well of girly sleepover games.

“Three animals.”  


“Wolf, panther, horse.”

“Three places.”

“Camp, the Ark, and, uh, Polis.”

“Okay,” Octavia answered, readying her pen to begin drawing the spiral, “Tell me when to stop.”

“You forgot the love interests,” he reminded her, not quite registering how silly he must have sounded.

“No I didn’t,” she said as if it were a very juicy secret, tilting her hidden notebook page farther away from him.

Then she began drawing a swirl onto her page, and Bellamy sighed. “Stop.”

“Eleven lines,” she said aloud, and began her diligent work of crossing off every eleventh item on her page, focused.

Bellamy watched her, and the twitch of the crease between her brows as she leaned close to her page and hid it with her arm, occasionally reaching out for a sip of her drink before shoving the cup back into Bellamy’s open, waiting hand. He loved her, and her crinkled brow, and her girly little sleepover games. He loved her so much, and his heart couldn’t have sank even as Fox skipped over, looking devilish.

Lexa returned at the same time, looking her usual amount of suspicious as she took her seat next to Bellamy and passed him his drink, who straightened up defensively as Fox snatched the notebook out of Octavia’s hand and tossed it to the side.

“Hey!” Octavia shouted, at which Fox smiled and shook her hands placatingly.

“Sorry, sorry! I just figured I had something more interesting in mind.”

Octavia quirked a brow, settling back along with Bellamy. “I’m listening.”

“Truth or Dare,” Fox whispered conspiratorially, at which Octavia’s eyes lit up like twin beacons. “No holds barred.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes as Octavia gasped in delight, jumping up and pumping her fists. Then she dove into the crowd of dancers, trying to sell the game to whoever she could while Fox rounded up people who were chatting around the kegs.

They returned with a small army of delinquents that scattered out slowly over the logs around the fire, all trying to look too cool for the prospective game, but all drama-hungry teenagers at heart.

“No getting out of this one, big brother,” Octavia warned him as Raven cranked the music down a bit, “You’re playing. Remember, you owe me for disappearing for a week.”

And how could Bellamy say no to that?

They moved slowly around the packed circle of partygoers, Fox going first, of course, to admit to having a crush on Sterling. Then Fox, blushing furiously, dared Jasper to have a jobi nut, who was already draped over poor, confused Monty like a human shawl.

Then Jasper slurred out a dare for Miller, who had to climb a nearby tree and sit in it for the remainder of the game, which Jasper found endlessly hilarious while Miller sat bewildered up in the maple.

Then it was Raven’s turn, who was forced to do her best approximation of Irish river dancing for the rest of the round, and only complied because she’d had more than a few drinks already.

After that Bellamy zoned out for a little while, returning to his preferred activity of watching Murphy show Clarke the complicated dance move he’d come up with, which mirrored a martial arts fighter taking on a ghost.

And Bellamy had never in his life wanted to be anywhere near a dance floor nor a dancing person, but as Murphy grabbed Clarke’s hands and allowed himself to be twirled more delicately than he himself was moving, making himself short and spinning under Clarke’s finger like a clunky ballerina in a music box… Bellamy wanted to be closer. He wanted to do what Clarke did. Wanted to have what she had. Wanted to—

“Lexa, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” she answered quickly and forcefully, drawing Bellamy’s attention back to the game, even if his eyes darted back over to see what Murphy was doing against his will.

“I dare you,” Harper said slowly, “To go dance with the Grounder girl.”

Lexa paled, fumbling her drink. “Truth,” she said instead, voice much smaller.

“Fine,” said Harper, “What do you think of the Grounder girl?”

For a horrifying moment, Lexa looked like she might cry. Then she steeled herself, put her drink down, and began marching over to the conglomeration of limbs that was the dancers. As she neared Clarke, though, she wound her hands behind her back and began shuffling, awkward, at which the other players giggled in a way that might’ve seemed mean-spirited if Bellamy hadn’t known they all loved their leader, and if he wasn’t incredibly endeared himself by how unnaturally terrified and transparent she was about her little crush on the Flamekeeper.

Then the game-players fell dead silent as Clarke noticed her hovering, released Murphy, smiled brightly and tugged Lexa in to link her hands around Lexa’s neck. Lexa hesitated, red to her toes, and then carefully settled her hands on Clarke’s waist as they began turning in a circle, teetering this way and that to the difficult-to-dance-to music. After a full rotation, they caught sight of Lexa’s blush and the rare smile on her face and exploded into an uproar of cheers that made her grin wider and turn redder, ducking her head.

Bellamy’s smile was so wide it actually had begun to hurt his face, and then fell clear away as Octavia turned on him, taking Lexa’s turn.

“Oh, _Bellamy,_ I believe it’s your turn,” she said with a lilt, like a serial killer hunting their last victim. “Truth or Dare?”

He looked at her imploringly, but Octavia was merciless, shaking her head and mouthing _“You owe me.”_

“Dare,” he sighed, and then wanted to crawl into himself as Octavia’s grin nearly split her face, vicious and oh-so-pleased with his answer, and an opportunity to embarrass him like he apparently so often embarrassed her.

“I dare you to have three more drinks before your next turn.”

_“O…” _he pleaded half-heartedly, knowing she’d never let him off the hook. Just as he expected, she shook her head again, patting his knee.

“Oh, it’s only three, you baby. And I’m sure Jasper will be happy to get go those for you and make sure no one accidentally waters them down, won’t you, Jas?”

Jasper jumped to his feet and swayed perilously toward the fire, before Monty steadied him. “T’would be my honor!” he agreed enthusiastically, and began bumbling confidently toward the keg table as Bellamy melted down into his boots.

He probably wasn’t a lightweight, but Bellamy had honestly never had a drink until the ground, and Jasper’s unity juice was no gentle concoction. And his pride. Oh God, his _pride. _If he danced, or sang, or even spoke, he’d never forgive himself.

Bellamy downed the drinks one after the other, all the while wishing he could’ve climbed a tree or confessed to a crush on Sterling instead.

Then the tentative evening sun went down for good and the moon took its place at the party, and someone tossed more wood on the fire, sending sparks jumping from the blaze, and lightning bugs made slow, leisurely circles against the forest backdrop, blinking erratically.

Six more rounds had gone by, and so far Bellamy had been put through sitting with a strand of Roma’s hair beneath his nose like a mustache for a full round, doing a hand-stand, having _another _drink, putting his boots on his hands, applying Fox’s homemade lipgloss, and letting a lightning bug crawl on his face for thirty seconds.

“I’m bored,” Harper said suddenly, as Monty was in the middle of letting Jasper give him a clumsy haircut. “Let’s play Never Have I Ever.”

Octavia and Fox agreed gleefully, but many others who had had their share of the fun took the transition as an opportunity to split off with a fling into the bushes or trudge drunkenly back to their tents.

Bellamy made to stand and leave himself, but was yanked back down to the log by his sister, whose face was painted with a pair of purple glasses made of squished berries. “Not so fast,” she tutted. “I think things are just about to get interesting, and you’re not missing out on the fun."

Bellamy followed her gaze, albeit dizzily, to where Clarke and Lexa were bumbling over, hands intertwined as they made their way toward a log together. Then Bellamy’s five-drink heart sped up as Murphy appeared behind them and twirled to sit on Bellamy’s right, to press up close to him.

“Hey,” he greeted, holding his hands out to the fire, chest rising and falling hard from his ceaseless dancing. His sweaty hair was slicked back out of his face, and there was a dark ring of it around the collar of his— _Bellamy’s_ shirt.

Bellamy was staring, and blinked himself back to the world. “Hey.”

They met eyes and smiled, briefly, before Fox clapped her hands loudly and made them jump and look away.

“Alright! A tale as old as time, but for the Grounders: every time someone says they’ve never done something but you have, you gotta drink. Got it?”

Clarke nodded, and Murphy flicked his hand as if ordering them to proceed.

“Never have I ever stolen something,” she announced, and most everyone drank, save for Bellamy, Clarke, and Lexa.

Bellamy raised a brow at Murphy who shrugged, mouth and nose hidden by his drink. There was a lot Bellamy didn’t know about him, and so little Murphy was willing to give up.

“Never have I ever been arrested.”

All of the delinquents laughed, drinking and nudging one another, asking _“Really?”_

“Never have I ever fainted."

A few people drank, and Bellamy and Murphy kept their eyes low as they sipped from their cups, and then Bellamy guffawed as Murphy reached out to clink their drinks together. They had an_ inside joke._

“Never have I ever killed someone.”

They drank, silent.

“Never have I ever been kissed."

Some of the teens drank, and so did Clarke. Bellamy was almost embarrassed by how young he felt, taking a sip and thinking of his high school girlfriend Posie Engler, and all the times they kissed in the corridor between classes, hidden behind blue locker doors.

Murphy however was balancing his cup on his knees and tracing the rim with his finger, hunching down small.

“Really?” Bellamy asked without meaning to, and Murphy got smaller, leaning over to hide his face and fiddling with his borrowed boots that were a few sizes too big. 

“How old_ are _you?” asked Monty, non-judgmental, only curious.

“Twenty long years, but it doesn’t matter. It’s frowned upon for the Commander to waste their time with _romance_ at any age.”

“And it’s_ dangerous,” _Clarke reminded him as Murphy scowled. “For _all_ involved parties.”

“Not even when you were a kid?” asked Miller.

“Well, I was eleven when I ascended,” Murphy replied. “And believe it or not I wasn’t all that popular before then, either.”

One of the boys whose name Bellamy didn’t know cracked up, suddenly. “The big scary Commander of Grounders is a _virgin?”_ he crowed, and was quickly knocked backwards off of his log by Harper. Murphy looked unaffected by the bully, though, still only as red as he’d been from the dancing and the alcohol and their first mention of kissing, and looking almost bored by the mean comment.

“Maybe we should play Spin the Bottle,” suggested Fox, who was met immediately by protest from people who ‘wanted to finish the current game’ but were probably just shy. “Come_ on_, you’re telling me none of you want to be the Grounder’s first kiss?”

At that Murphy looked like a turtle who wanted to dive back into his shell, all his usual confidence and bravado long gone. He dropped his head to his knees and hid his face in his own lap, and Bellamy, feeling warmth pool in his stomach at Murphy’s bright red ears and his inhibitions melting away, scooted closer and rested his hand on Murphy’s back.

“They could only be so lucky, right?” Bellamy tried to comfort him, at which Clarke’s head shot up, and Lexa and Octavia’s too. He didn’t know what their problem was, and kept smiling down at Murphy’s defensive form on the off chance he looked up. 

Bellamy was drunk. He knew very well that he was drunk, and that he was seeing things through drunk-goggles.

But as Murphy carefully turned his head on his knees to peek at Bellamy’s lazy smile, and Bellamy saw his flushed cheeks and watched the way Murphy pushed a strand of cinnamon hair behind his blazing ear, his eyes dark and wandering from the influence of alcohol— he wanted that.

He wanted to be the Grounder’s first kiss. Then, out of nowhere, like a meteor blasting a hole into the Earth, he wanted more than to kiss him. He wanted to be close to him and to touch him without excuses, to hold him without the context of violence all around them, to know him biblically.

Just them in Bellamy’s tent, the sounds of night around them and the red glow of the canvas on Murphy’s skin beneath him, and Bellamy’s chest doesn’t bleed and Murphy isn’t hanging half-dead from the ceiling. Bellamy would show him what it was like, get to hear all his little sounds and feel his skin, his mouth, his hands, make _bossy_, _cocky, snarky, self-important _Commander Murphy forget himself, forget who was in charge, forget all the things that he had to do, forget the voices in his head. Bellamy would lead, and Murphy would smile, and laugh, and gasp, and _moan,_ and—

“Bellamy should do it!”

Bellamy blinked, dropping his hand from Murphy’s back and looking up at the others, who were in uproar, laughing.

“Yeah, right!” cried another kid he didn’t know, for reasons unbeknownst to Bellamy.

Murphy flinched and curled tighter into himself for a moment, and then stood, wobbling and offering everyone a smile, usually so sharp but dulled then by either insecurity or, judging by the way he couldn't seem to decide which foot to trust standing on, drunkenness.

“Thank you all for a wonderful evening,” he said in his best, formal ambassador’s meeting voice. “But I can’t feel my fingers, and I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”

Some of them waved, and others burst into laughter again as Murphy took his leave.

“Goodnight, adoring subjects of the Enigmatic Virgin King,” mocked one of the boys, “I must tell each and every one of you that I am leaving, so you may mourn the loss of me and my enigmatic virginal presence.” Some of the kids guffawed, while others looked annoyed by the teasing.

“Hey,” Bellamy blurted, feeling Octavia’s grounding hand on his arm as he pointed at the boy who had spoken. “He’s not usually like that. He’s never—“ Bellamy hiccuped. “He was just trying to be nice. Shut the hell up.”

“Yeah,” drawled the boy, “The Grounders treat you real _nice _after you ditched us to save your own ass? In case you forgot, while you were gone they were _killing _us.”

“He_ saved _you!” Bellamy shouted, swaying as he stood up. The boy’s eyes were dark and hateful where he glared at Bellamy through the fire, orange-lit skin ablaze from more than teasing, now. “You all treat him like shit, but he saved me, and he saved _you. _Murphy is more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Bellamy spat.

After a stretch of tense silence the boy harrumphed, and when Bellamy sighed and looked away, Clarke was staring up at him with glimmering eyes, like he had done something amazing.

Bellamy gave her a confused half-smile, before stepping around Octavia’s legs to leave the fire pit.

“Yeah, go run after your pet Grounder,” shouted one of the shitty kid’s shitty friends, a voice he recognized. “Don’t come crying to us when he bites ‘ya!”

“Go to Hell, Connor,” Bellamy called back, surprisingly mild compared to his usual, more hands-on flavor of conflict, at which many of the delinquents roared. Bellamy, again, was oblivious to why they found everything he did so funny.

Bellamy trudged through the cold dark through the rows of colorful tents, some filled with talking and giggling and other… things, and some with silence. Cicadas chirped steadily in the trees, frogs croaking in the bushes, and Bellamy was almost so drunk that he thought he could hear the white hum of the moon.

His tent was one of the silent ones, and he jiggled the zipper to let Murphy know he was coming in before he lowered it and ducked inside.

Murphy was lying on his back, and didn’t move as Bellamy kicked off his boots and shucked off his jacket, tossing them aside, nor when he lied down on his pallet. 

“I feel like I’m underwater,” Murphy explained succinctly.

Bellamy watched the ceiling of the tent and the red walls blur together, his head feeling bloated and heavy. “Yeah,” he agreed, even though he felt more like a balloon expanding.

“We had fun, right?” Murphy asked, slurring his words and extending a hand to Bellamy.

“I think so,” agreed Bellamy again. “I liked watching you dance, at least,” he added and reached out to take Murphy’s hand.

“I liked dancing. I wish you would’a…" Murphy trailed off, shaking his head slightly and then smiling at nothing in particular. "I_ like_ music…” he said dreamily, like he’d met someone new. “I’ll have to get a radio when I g’back to Polis. Or… maybe I’ll get a guitar…”

“I think you’d like drums better,” Bellamy suggested, and Murphy squeezed his hand in enthusiastic but wordless agreement, even though in the morning he'd say he had no time for drums, or music, or much of anything and especially not Bellamy, once this was all over.

They lied awake a little while longer, long enough for Bellamy to imagine they were part of one body and each controlling one eye, looking at the blurred tent canvas together, working to steady their world in tandem.

“I know they laughed ‘cause it’s stupid,” Murphy said quietly, “But I would’ve been okay with it if you'd kissed me. Just sayin’. I wouldn’t have been weird about it, or said no, or anything. Not that you… whatever.”

Bellamy couldn’t feel his face much, but he knew he was smiling, at least a little. “Was it just Fox’s lipgloss?” he asked, giving his lips an unappealing smack, and Murphy laughed, his sudden dark cloudiness lifting as he rolled his head against the pillow, squishing his grin into the fabric. Bellamy glanced over, and Murphy was looking at him with an unreadable expression, eyes dark and wanting and a little sad, still.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Yeah, maybe it was just that. G’night, Bellamy.”

“Goodnight, Murphy.”

Bellamy listened to the crickets outside, watching a lightning bug that had snuck in behind him float lazily around the tent. His gaze sank down to where their hands were tangled together, one tan and freckled and big, the other pale and scarred and small, at least in comparison.

“Would’ve kissed you,” Bellamy agreed again, voice low, stomach hot, wishing he could reach out and touch him. “Anytime.”

But Murphy was long gone, holding his blankets to his chest like they were that red cape of his, and Bellamy gently slipped his hand from Murphy’s and snuck outside to puke.

Even as he held onto a tree for support and held his stomach with the other hand, he smiled at the ground.

They’d had fun, and Murphy would’ve kissed him back.


	17. of the bitch who was dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stay (instrumental) — gavin mikhail 
> 
> [chapter cw // past torture, aftermath of torture/trauma, referenced death]

When Murphy was fourteen, he was taken from his bed by Azgeda soldiers. Queen Nia wanted something she couldn’t have, because of course she did, so they took Murphy to the Ice Nation. It was a four day carriage ride, where Murphy lied gagged and blindfolded inside of a produce crate as the soldiers passed through what felt like an endless number of checkpoints. Once in Azgeda they chained him up in a dark little room, and they tortured him until he agreed to give them what they wanted.

There was a point between the cutting and the burning and the hitting where the torturer wrapped his fingers around Murphy’s neck, seemingly for the fun of it, and squeezed until Murphy’s sight went dark. And then he kept squeezing.

Murphy knew he was about to die, because the Commanders’ voices in his head amalgamated into a dark, black knot of piercing noise, as they overloaded with information to give him. Murphy’s head screamed until the torturer let go, and Murphy knew then that the last thing he wanted in his final moments was eternal wisdom.

He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to not hurt anymore.

As he grew up, whenever his head ached or throat closed, Murphy’s mind went back to that black knot, and that desperate, clawing panic to not die in pain.

The morning after the party Murphy awoke to a sheen of sweat over his skin, a thirst that pervaded his very soul, a roiling stomach and a pounding head, and he thought of the black knot.

**_ “You’re okay,”_** Bekka promised, as he lay there breathing slowly, in and out. **_“It’s called a hangover. You drank too much. I told you to be responsible.”_**

Murphy opened his eyes slowly, gripping the blankets tight and wishing he could pop the top of his head off like a cork off of a bottle. A bottle of _water._

He settled slightly when he realized he was in a familiar tent, red walls and ceiling piercingly bright with morning sun, the bed of fronds and furs crinkling beneath him. He settled more when he realized he wasn’t alone.

Bellamy was lying there with his eyes closed, hair tousled and caramel skin glimmering with sunlight on sweat. He was halfway off of his pallet, one leg slung over Murphy’s (well, Bellamy’s) mattress so his socked foot was stuck between Murphy’s, and one of his hands was resting against Murphy’s chest, like he’d reached out to touch him during the night. Like he’d tried to get closer, but couldn’t.

In turn, Murphy’s arms were around Bellamy’s stray hand, and his feet were guarding Bellamy’s stray foot, too. In his unconsciousness, he had accepted Bellamy’s touch, and upon waking, was reluctant to let him go.

His breathing had steadied and his panic had simmered, and before he peeled away Murphy allowed himself only this: to run his fingers along the length of Bellamy’s arm, while he had the chance.

Then he allowed himself a little more, and turned Bellamy’s wide palm over, resting two of his fingers in the center of it.

Murphy had gotten so used to loss. To doing the same thing, day after day, and watching his world shrink as people left, and people died, and storms happened, and famine happened, and war happened.

And then Bellamy had come down from the sky, to fuck up Murphy’s life and make it interesting, and exciting, and warm. To break the heart Murphy had forgot he had and to save the life Murphy had forgotten was worth anything.

The few people in Murphy’s life and in Murphy’s head, before: they could teach him, help him, make him good.

But Bellamy didn’t seem to give a shit about eternal wisdom, and Murphy thought if he died with Bellamy in his head, maybe it would all finally be quiet.

Or maybe that was all crazy bullshit, and he just needed some air.

It was another afterlife kind of morning. Autumn was slowly turning into winter and the trees, bare or brown-leaved, were revealing themselves in their fully, bony, wiry glory. Morning dew twinkled under a layer of fog, that which weaved around the bottoms of naked birch trees but seemed like a hallucination when Murphy reached out to touch it.

He sat outside of the wall on a hill, held together only by tree roots where the rest of the soil had tumbled down and made a little cliff of sorts. They had just boiled a few more pots of rainwater, so the water in Murphy’s tin was still warm, and he wore one of Bellamy’s blankets around his shoulders as the cold air nipped at his face.

Murphy wasn’t big on aimless thinking, or meditating, or strolling, or any number of the other seemingly spiritual, soul-healing kinds of things that Clarke did and the Commanders suggested. Murphy calmed himself down by going to the brothel, or lying in bed under the covers, unmoving.

But tomorrow would be his last morning in this camp, in this little purgatory between death and destiny. He wanted to watch the dawn dissipate over the horizon without the hustle and bustle of the city beneath him, and ambassadors and scribes and guards and servants and Flamekeepers and assassins and spies in the throne room behind him, and Commanders in his head.

There was one Commander he didn’t mind, though, and grinned as Bellamy sat next to him on the root, drinking from his own cup of hot water.

“Breikheda,” Murphy greeted him, hiding his smile in his cup.

Bellamy stuck out his tongue at the hot water after he took a sip, and sighed, looking out over the white horizon too.

“What’s on your mind, Confucius?”

**_“Ancient philosopher,”_** hinted Bekka.

Murphy stretched his legs out, leaning back to rest on one of his hands to get a discreet look at Bellamy’s profile.

“Ceaseless aching pain, mostly,” Murphy grumbled, at which Bellamy laughed, placing a hand on his forehead and nodding.

“You’re telling me,” he replied. “I think we’re getting too old to be partying like that.”

“At least we got one in before our old bones gave up on us,” Murphy agreed, and Bellamy laughed again, and Murphy hoped Bellamy wouldn’t catch him staring, but he couldn’t help it. He loved that sound. He loved the crinkle of Bellamy’s eyes. He wanted to keep making him laugh; seemed like he was damn near the only one who found Murphy funny.

“Cold,” Bellamy appraised suddenly, and then casually lifted the quilt from Murphy’s shoulders and scooted up against his side, pulling the blanket around both of them, going about it all like it was normal for them to snuggle and watch the sunrise together, and it almost felt like it was. 

And Murphy’s heart broke, when it should have been abloom.

He didn’t want to go.

“I really did wanna know what’s got you out here contemplating the world,” Bellamy asked again, quietly. “If you’ll let me in that iron-walled head of yours.”

Murphy swallowed, as Bellamy shifted and brushed his finger against Murphy’s where they pressed against pine straw and the dead leaves. And Murphy had no choice.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

Bellamy’s kind gaze on the side of Murphy’s face intensified, then. Became something darker and deeper and fuller. Something that forced its way under Murphy’s skin.

“I know we haven’t known each other that long,” he explained, and willed his voice not to shake, “And that you might still hate me for everything I did, or maybe you just don’t care at all, but… I like it here, with you.”

After a beat of silence that felt like a lifetime to Murphy, as his breath stopped coming and the black knot started forming, Bellamy shifted again, and linked their pinky fingers together.

“I was going with you whether you liked it or not.”

And Murphy let out a strangled, tinny laugh at that, as Bellamy became overwhelmed by his honesty and tucked his head against Murphy’s shoulder, bringing them impossibly closer.

“Have to make sure you follow through on all my demands, can’t give you a chance to scam us.”

Murphy, carefully and slowly, lowered his ear to the top of Bellamy’s head. “My master scheme, foiled again.”

Murphy could never have touched anyone else like this. But it felt so easy with Bellamy. Like Bellamy would take everything he was willing to give, and would never say he’d had too much of him.

They sat there for another long moment, before Bellamy let out a small, shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For saying that.”

“Needed an ego boost?”

“Needed to know I wasn’t going insane,” he replied, voice thick and suddenly gruff with awkwardness. “That we’re… friends. After all this.”

“Friends,” Murphy repeated, staring at the fog-covered mountains in the distance. It made more sense than anything he’d ever heard, and at the same time, made no sense at all. “Yeah,” he breathed. “‘Course.”

Bellamy nodded against his shoulder, satisfied, and Murphy watched their feet as they periodically knocked their boots together in the silence, just making another unnecessary point of contact.

Would Bellamy feel safe in Polis? Would he be okay to leave his people again? Would Lexa and Jasper and Monty and Octavia be okay here until their pilgrimage to new land (if Murphy could manage it), with the Mountain Men lurking?

“Maybe you should all come,” Murphy suggested impulsively, and ignored him as Sheidheda started pushing at the corners of his mind, waking and buzzing in protest. But Murphy was calm and sure of himself, and the Commander was forced back into silence.

Bellamy picked his head up, staring at Murphy with wide eyes.

“There’s room in Polis, it’s a big city. You could all come and stay there. It’ll be safer, and you’ll have everyone close—“  


“Isn’t this what almost got both of us killed in the first place, times a hundred?”

“They’ll forget all about it when I tell them we’re going to war with the Mountain,” Murphy promised before he’d really thought about it, and then felt his confidence swell as he realized it was true. No one knew his people’s hunger for justice like he did, and taking down the Mountain with the Skypeople on their side was exactly what they needed. Maybe not to forgive Murphy, but at least to forgive the little astronauts, whose leader had saved their people’s lives.

He could march into battle with Breikheda at his side, and he could sleep at night knowing he was close.

“Come with me. All of you.”

“Okay,” Bellamy agreed, before his serious face split into a disbelieving smile. “Okay, yes.”

Convincing the Skypeople to come along wasn’t nearly as difficult as the two leaders had expected. Most everyone had warmed up to Clarke and Murphy, or at least become neutral to them, and even those who still viciously hated Grounders couldn’t argue with the benefits of being protected by the royal guard and having easy access to food, water, shelter, and any other resource they could want, within reason.

A day of packing and preparation passed, and Bellamy and Murphy stayed behind as the Skypeople followed Lexa and Clarke into the open wild.

Murphy stared up at the dropship, around at the tents and the smokehouse where he’d humiliated himself all those days ago, the tree line where they’d sat together and watched morning rise. 

Bellamy dumped one last pail of rainwater over the fire that never stopped blazing, and slid his arm around Murphy’s shoulder as the steam and smoke blossomed up into the air and disappeared.

“Missing the prison camp already?” Bellamy asked. “That’s called Stockholm syndrome, you know.”

**_“I don’t think that’s true,”_** Bekka argued.

Murphy didn’t speak, swallowing as he thought of returning to the tower that he’d called home for so many years. The tower that wasn’t safe anymore. The tower where no one wanted him.

“Take it easy,” said Bellamy, softer, then. “You have almost a hundred new devoted citizens at your back, and a dashingly handsome and brave Skycrew ambassador, too. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’m supposed to be protecting _you,”_ Murphy sighed, holding his heart’s rattling cage door shut as Bellamy squeezed him, knocking his head against Murphy’s.

“We look out for each other now,” Bellamy said, and smiled gently as Murphy met his kind brown eyes, searching for doubt and finding none. “Now quit worrying and come help me get on this goddamn horse. I just can’t.”

Two days of travel went by relatively smoothly, the Skypeople enjoying petting the horses and sleeping under the stars, young and simple-lived as they were. Then they could go no farther and were stood at the gates of Polis, and from the back of Dioskouroi, Murphy raised Cage Wallace’s sword, and did no more than give it a flick, waving the doors open.

He would not beg to enter his own capital, and evidently, his capital would not make him beg, as the gates creaked open slowly and Murphy passed through them with his chin high and his little Skyperson army filing in silently behind him, filling up the street and then some.

Dax was standing bewildered just outside the tower, an emotion other than anger on his face for once. “Heda, what—?”

“I assume everything is under control here as promised?” Murphy interrupted, and fought an eye-roll as Bellamy and Clarke ducked their heads, grinning into the manes of their horses. Yeah, yeah. His Commander voice was _so_ funny.

“Yes, Heda,” Dax answered, straightening up and digging the butt of his spear into the dirt.

“Good,” said Murphy, and then turned to address the crowd that had gathered, whispering. “Citizens of Polis, meet the Skypeople, your new neighbors—“

The gasping and grumbling began in an instant, eyes lighting up with fury and hate for the Commander. They were ready to let the assassins have at him, to tie him up and bleed him dry for being a _tyrant. _

But Murphy had a feeling they might change their minds.

“—and the Thirteenth Clan,” he continued, unruffled, “Who will walk with you into battle in our war on the Mountain and Azgeda, which has committed their last act of treason against this coalition.”

Then Murphy waited, as the dubious, burning whispers faded to nothing. Then, as a knowing smile creeped across his face, the crowd erupted into war cries, shouts, hollering in favor of justice and revenge against greater, common enemies, at long last.

Murphy had put such decisions off for so long because everyone and their mother had input to give on what was right and was wrong. But if this was what the people wanted, Murphy could give them that. And if this was what the Mountain Men and the Ice Nation deserved, Murphy could give them that.

The Skypeople were quiet. Clarke looked nervous about his declaration against Azgeda, chewing at her lip, and Bellamy was watching Murphy neutrally, firmly, going along with it all. Prepared to pay the price for everything he wanted, regardless of what he thought of it.

For once, Murphy trusted himself, and someone trusted Murphy.

The Skypeople were busy setting up tents on the wide, green stretch of land surrounding the tower, and inside, Murphy was making his way to the dining room to sate his own growling stomach and to send the head cook to contact their suppliers and order enough produce to get the Skypeople started. They’d have to work eventually, but for now, Murphy could take care of them. All ninety-one of them, and Monty too, who had apparently given up his career in Sangedakru to become a nomad inventor, but who would only go wherever the wind of Jasper would take him.

Murphy felt both more and less like himself again, with his eye-black, his Commander’s shoulder-piece on, a red cape dragging behind him, his black boots that_ fit _carrying him down the wide, echoing corridors of his tower. He was the Commander again, but the purgatory of the dropship camp and the Mountain, the microcosm of Bellamy, they had tapped into something like a soul he had lost. Something that disappeared now, as he was alone, holding his head high whether he felt like he deserved to or not.

Halfway to the dining hall, a servant he recognized caught his attention with an urgent little wave and leaned in to whisper something that must have been about the end of the world, considering the way her face was scrunched up like the secret was eating away at her.

“There’s an Azgeda ambassador waiting for you in the throne room. They’re new, I’ve never seen them before. You may want to hurry, Heda.”

Murphy ignored the unneeded suggestion, furrowing his brow. “Why the hell were they let into the tower in the first place?”

“They’d been loitering outside the gate for almost two days, no one knew what to do with them and, well, I suppose they figured this was safer than letting them circle.”

Murphy rushed to the throne room and kicked the door in with a hand on his thigh, fingers brushing a dagger, and the guards ignored him, circling the ambassador with their spears at the ready. Clarke was already there, gripping a scroll like it would fly away and staring at him like she wanted him to read her mind.

The ambassador turned slowly, dressed in fine, dark furs, hair cascading down her back. “Hello, Heda,” she said gently, and Murphy straightened up, forgetting his knife. “I’m afraid I never thanked you.”

“You’re from the Mountain,” Murphy said, perhaps dumbly.

“Yes,” she agreed, her lips quirking into a smile. “I’ll make this quick. The Trikru villagers took me home to be healed, and when I arrived… well, I’ll let your Fleimkepa be the deliverer of the good news—“

“Queen Nia’s_ dead!”_ Clarke blurted, eyes bright in a way they usually weren’t when announcing passings. “She’s _gone, _Murphy.”

The woman who had his family killed. The woman who had him taken, tortured. The woman who had harassed Murphy for the last nine years. She could never touch him again.

Murphy kept his head on, leveling the Azgedan woman with a serious stare that made Clarke wilt a bit, confused. “So the bag of bones is dead. Is that all?”

“Prince Roan has called home all of her spies from Polis, and wants to commit fully to leading the Twelfth Clan of Kongeda.”

“I expect him to prove that loyalty.”

“He will.”

“Two hundred acres of land for the Thirteenth Clan and your army marches alongside us against the Mountain. Consider them reparations for the crimes of the Queen and tokens of peace, or Kongeda turns the Ice Nation into a puddle."

The woman gave another half-smile, looking surprised and not unpleasantly so. “I’ll run it by him. Verbatim?”

“Of course.” Murphy gave a caustic smile as she began to make her leave, tossing another cool, amused look over her shoulder. “Pleasure doing business with you, snow minion,” he bade, and in turn, the woman gave a little wave of her fingers.

“Call me Ambassador Echo,” she offered, standing in the doorway. “I imagine we will be seeing a lot more of each other, and I am marginallynicer than the last guy.”

Murphy sneered as the guards escorting the ambassador closed the door behind her, and then he was stood in the middle of the throne room, with a childhood nightmare melting to nothing in his hands. She was dead. It was over.

Then he hit the floor, and rolled over to find Clarke pounding on his chest, grinning like mad. “Didn’t you hear anything she just said? She’s _dead! _There’s no war with Azgeda_! _We _won!”_

And slowly but surely, Murphy’s face split into a smile. “The bitch is dead.”

“The bitch is dead!” Clarke exclaimed back, holding Murphy’s limp hands in the air and giving them an excited jiggle, making him cheer.

For once in Murphy’s life, everything was going kind of alright.

**_ “You see, Commander?” _** whispered Bekka. **_“Good things happen.”_**

Outside in the Skaikru encampment, the cooks rolled out wagons of produce and grains, and the natblidas handed out the oranges, personally showing each and every delinquent how to open them with their nails.

Murphy sat at Bellamy’s side on a stack of crates, only close enough that their knees touched. The sun was going down slowly, giving everyone time to settle in.

He told Bellamy about Azgeda, about how he’d gotten land for them and about how he’d had Clarke send a messenger to each of the clans to prepare for war in two weeks time.

“I know you don’t need us, but when the time comes,” Bellamy promised, “We’ll be right behind you.”

An easy little smile floated onto Murphy’s face as Bellamy bumped their shoulders together, always touching anyway he could. “I don’t know where you got that idea,” said Murphy, “But we need everyone we can get. Especially you.”

Bellamy smirked down at the orange he was peeling, nudging Murphy with his elbow again. “You need _Breikheda?”_

Murphy nudged him back. “I need Bellamy.”

At that, Bellamy fumbled his orange and dropped it in the dirt, and sighed as Murphy laughed, watching it roll away like it was sentient. "My orange."

"We'll get you another one," Murphy promised. "We're in Polis. You can have all the oranges you want."

And Bellamy stared down at Murphy with his eyes darting around, big and dark, looking for a joke or a lie. But Murphy meant it. Every word, of all of it.


	18. of the bare bones of things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wave(s) — lewis del mar
> 
> [chapter cw // threatened murder, sexual situation + mentions of sex]

The mirror above his dresser casted a sliver of reflected sunlight over his healing wounds, which felt smooth in some places and less so around a few of the lacerations’ edges, like peeling velvet, under Bellamy’s fingers. The cuts went deep, and it would be a long time before the scars sank back into his skin to leave little more than rippling lines across his ribs and chest.

He pulled his shirt over his head, toed his boots on, and picked up The Hobbit on his way out of the bedroom, making his way quietly to the dining room.

His chest had been healing for two weeks, the last four days of the process having taken place in Polis, where Bellamy could navigate the tower on his own now, for the most part, and where he’d stay until their takeover of Mount Weather, and until Azgeda had marked off and cleared the land they’d been forced to allocate to Skaikru. And Bellamy wasn’t in a hurry. Not at all.

Breakfast was made up of more foods that Bellamy had never seen in real life before: bacon, eggs, and cantaloupe, and he sat under the stream of sun coming in from the massive dining room windows and cracked open his book, eating with one hand, flipping pages with the other.

He’d been doing this every morning for the last few days, taking advantage of his free time before he started training in the royal guard to earn his keep in Polis (even if Murphy insisted he could do whatever he wanted and have whatever he wanted at no cost, which Bellamy thought strange, sweet, and incredibly unfair to everyone else in the city).

The throne room was next door, and periodically, Bellamy would be yanked out of his fictional worlds by Murphy’s shouting; sometimes the formal and powerful booming of a king, and other times the curse-laden lamentations of a boy who just hated his job.

Bellamy grinned, chewing a piece of bacon and turning toward the double doors to the dining room where the yelling was floating in. His grin fell away, though, as guards rushed past beyond the glass doors, feet pounding on the corridor’s laminate and weapons drawn. Bellamy abandoned his book and breakfast, hurrying out of the dining room and pushing past the guards into the throne room.

A girl in a floral blouse was stood small and meek in the massive room, looking childish as she scuffed her white sneakers against the length of carpet leading up to the throne, where Murphy had risen out of his chair and was holding up his hands, urging the guards to settle down.

“But Heda, you said she is of the Mountain.”

“She helped me,” Murphy explained, shooing them away. As they lowered their spears, he leveled the girl with a bone-chilling look. He wasn’t playing around. “You have twenty seconds to explain how and why you’re here.”

“The nightblood experiments from your sample,” she said. “They worked.”

Bellamy knew the tremble in her voice. He knew the wild black hair.

There was a radiation leak while they were staying in the dorms of Mount Weather, and Bellamy had seen the way the air practically ate the bottom-dwellers alive. But Maya was here, and she was alive.

“They told me not to risk it, but I came here to tell you we won’t take anymore… people. For blood transfusions. My family volunteered for the trial runs, but it'll be months before everyone gets enough doses to come up. But it’s finally over, so... you don’t have to wage war," she said as if it were common sense, and not a plea for her people's lives.

Murphy listened carefully, and then his lips quirked up into a small, genteel smile. “Well, now that you’re done murdering my people, I guess we’re all good.”

Bellamy’s blood ran cold as if he were the one under Murphy’s sharp, glinting stare, as Murphy took another step down from the throne’s platform. But Maya didn’t quite get it, and sighed with relief.

“Really?” she asked, with genuine wonder in her voice. It quickly teetered to dubiousness, as Murphy took another menacing step down. “Because— ah, you don’t _sound—“_

Murphy smiled wider, and took his final step down, leaning into Maya’s space with his hands behind his back, nice and proper. She flinched as his voice came out in a slicing whisper against her face. _“_Your people _took _mine, turned them into _monsters_ and bled them _dry_, and tossed their bodies out like garbage.” Then his smile dropped. “The army marches in ten days.”

Maya was wringing her hands, and Bellamy still couldn’t see her face, but there was almost no way she wasn’t crying. He kind of felt sorry for her. “But—“

“Ten days,” Murphy repeated, straightening up again. “You and your family can live, but not on our territory.”

“How—“ she sniffled, covering her mouth in horror. “How do we get off of your— your territory?”

“Head east until you hit water, and then keep fucking going.”

With a flick of his hand and an order to have a messenger escort Maya back to the Mountain, which was surprisingly generous and would likely leave a very unhappy messenger on Murphy’s hands, the girl left the room teary-eyed, acknowledged by Bellamy with a nod as she left and returning a stuttering one of her one.

The doors closed behind her and the guards who were escorting her, and Murphy turned casually to the row of ambassadors sat in their chairs on the right of the throne room, raising his brows. “Next on the docket?”

“You should not have spared that monster’s family,” blurted one of the ambassadors, a young, stony-faced woman who clearly took no prisoners. “You favor what is easy over what is just.”

“Watch yourself, Ambassador Craddok," Murphy warned, to no avail.

“First you spare the Ice Nation, and now you let the Mountain Men make a mockery of royal blood and spread their disease elsewhere. You weren’t always so weak,” she snarled, slumping back in her seat and crossing her arms.

Murphy sighed, seemingly deciding, for once, that this wasn’t a battle worth fighting. “I took mercy on the Skypeople, and now Kongeda is that much larger, that much stronger. I took mercy on Azgeda, and we all benefit from their resources. The girl from the Mountain took mercy on me, and today I spared her life. Mercy is not weakness, it’s a currency. If I’ve learned anything from my time with the Skypeople, it’s that blood is not the only way to even the scales.”

Bellamy looked down and smiled.

“Now if you’ll take mercy on the patience I have left and use your head, Ambassador, we’ll all be the better for it,” finished Murphy, at which the other ambassadors chuckled. Clarke gave a little huff of silent laughter herself, drawing Bellamy’s attention. They exchanged grins, both looking out on Murphy as he circled around his throne and leaned against the back of it, tired of posturing.

Bellamy thought it funny how Murphy tried so hard to be regal before his subjects, but the real Murphy ceaselessly ended up shining through, almost always in the last five minutes.

“The war is still on,” Murphy said loudly, speaking through the gnarled branches of his throne. “Jus drein jus daun. Now quit finding things to complain about and go throw a fuckin’ party.”

The ambassadors rose slowly, some unsure of whether they were being dismissed or not, and began making their way toward the door. “What’s a party?” one of them asked.

Murphy gave an exaggerated sigh, swishing his hand in the air. “Clarke, tell them what a party is.”

Clarke peeled off of the wall and began walking alongside the crowd, giving a very poor explanation of her understanding of parties at which the ambassadors nodded, listening intently as they filed out and the guards followed, leaving just Bellamy and Murphy.

Bellamy crossed the room as Murphy rested his head against the back of the throne, his arms slung through gaps in the branches. At the top of the steps Bellamy collapsed into the massive throne, which was surprisingly comfortable despite its hard, intimidating appearance.

“I could kill you for that,” Murphy muttered, peeking an eye open and staring at Bellamy through the branches.

Bellamy gave a leisurely, theatrical sigh, rolling his head against the back of the throne to look up at Murphy, shifting in his seat as if digging into it. “Then kill me,” he suggested, “Because I like the way I feel in this thing.”

Murphy gave a little laugh, twirling around the back of the throne to sling himself over the thick wooden arm of it and land in Bellamy’s lap. “How ‘bout now?” he asked, before paling as he looked at Bellamy’s face, who didn’t answer fast enough. Couldn’t.

“Uh,” started Murphy, bracing himself on one of the throne’s arms and trying awkwardly to get up without touching Bellamy. “Sorry.”

_No, _Bellamy realized urgently, wishing he hadn’t been reduced to one caveman thought per second at Murphy’s touch. He quickly wrapped his arms around Murphy’s waist and pulled him back in, not realizing he had trapped Murphy’s cape under his boot. Murphy, suddenly red-faced and frantic, leaned into Bellamy to pull the red garment free. When it snapped out from under Bellamy’s boot, Murphy’s elbow flew back and caught him under the jaw, making Bellamy’s mouth snap loudly shut.

Murphy turned a wide-eyed stare on Bellamy, sitting tangled up in his lap with his elbow still raised, as if he was worried he’d break more of Bellamy’s teeth if he moved.

Then, at once, they bursted into a bout of laughter that seemed almost hysterical in nature, going on far longer than the situation called for. Murphy tilted his head back as he laughed, brighter and louder and stronger than Bellamy had ever heard it, and for a wild-eyed, dizzying moment, Bellamy thought maybe Murphy was more than a friend.

But those were laying-awake-at-night thoughts; thoughts that didn’t come to fruition; thoughts that Bellamy was only ever allowed to teeter on the edge of.

“Hey,” he said thickly as Murphy came down from his laughter, still draped over Bellamy like he was a chaise lounge. His voice caught, and Bellamy swallowed, clearing his throat. “I liked your little speech.”

“Oh, yeah?” Murphy asked, his face pink and bright. “What’d you like about it?”

“I liked the parts about me,” Bellamy answered, grinning without much meaning to as Murphy leaned in a little bit, eyes twinkling with mirth. “And I liked the guy giving it.”

“Yeah? You liked his husky, powerful voice?”

Bellamy knew he was teasing. He was joking. Murphy was trying to have fun, and Bellamy didn’t need to ruin it by getting in his own head. By thinking about Murphy in his lap, on his throne, leaning in closer, and closer.

“Yeah,” Bellamy answered in earnest, breathy and dazed, against his own will. And instead of being off-put, Murphy got impossibly closer, so close that Bellamy could have kissed him, and looked at Bellamy with a half-lidded gaze that set his nerves on fire.

“I can give a lot more than speeches,” he replied, voice low and hot against Bellamy’s jaw, who felt like a live wire as Murphy trailed a hand down his chest, his stomach, and tugged at Bellamy’s belt.

Murphy fumbled with the buckle for a moment, and in a blink, the fog was wiped away.

“Wait,” Bellamy ground out, grabbing Murphy’s wrist and hating himself. “No.”

Murphy stilled, looking confused. “Why not?”

Bellamy stared back, confused himself. Why not?

He would have done anything for Murphy, after what they had been through together the last two weeks. He had been with Murphy longer than he had been with his own people. Murphy had risked everything for him, had given him a home, and Bellamy hoped he had done the same for Murphy. But when Bellamy got down to the bare bones of things, they had only known each other for two weeks.

If Murphy was just his latest adrenaline rush, Bellamy couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ start something he couldn’t finish with someone who had never been loved.

“I can’t,” Bellamy croaked. “You’ve never even kissed anyone.”

“So _what?_” exclaimed Murphy, looking bewildered, mostly, but also a little horrified. “I’ve had sex!” he blurted out. “This isn’t a big deal!”

Bellamy shook his head, giving himself no time to process that. He was sure that this couldn’t happen. He couldn’t lead Murphy on.

“It is a big deal,” Bellamy explained. “I_ care _about you.”

“So you won’t fuck me because you _care_ about me?!” Murphy mocked him, his voice high and tight, betraying his usually unruffled attitude.

Bellamy didn’t know what to say, feeling like a supreme asshole even if it wasn’t really his fault, until Murphy shoved off of his lap and whipped his cape hard, untangling it from his own legs.

“Get out,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on, Murphy,” Bellamy started, reaching out and trying to reason with the Commander. “I didn’t mean anything by it—“

“Get out!” Murphy yelled.

So Bellamy walked to the door in silence, and left.

No longer wanting to be in the tower and needing a place to breathe, Bellamy wound down the stairs and went out to the delinquent’s encampment. A large group was playing soccer, working up a sweat under the nearly-noon sun. Some were eating an early lunch in the grass, tossing pieces of food at one another and gossiping. Couples were scattered about in nooks and crannies, making out against trees and flirting in the shade of their open tents.

Bellamy tried to imagine Murphy playing soccer or gossiping over lunch or making out with Posie Engler behind blue locker doors, and couldn’t. Murphy wasn’t normal, if they could even be called normal. Murphy had missed out on so much and if someone could show him those things, Bellamy didn’t want to be the one Murphy was hung up on.

He thought maybe chatting with Octavia would make him feel better, and made his way toward her tent, the little blue one in the far corner of the grassy opening. When he announced himself he went unanswered, and when he peeked inside the tent was empty, save for her purple notebook flipped open on her bed to a page full of doodles.

He stepped inside and picked up the notebook, smiling at her drawings of horses and trees and hearts and endless swirls. He flipped through more drawings, and more drawings, until he found himself looking at a page full of scribbles and categorized words.

_“M.A.S.H.,” _read the top, with the _“M”_ circled, for mansion.

_“Babies,”_ read the second category, with _“10”_ circled.

_ “Pet,”_ read the third category, with _“horse”_ circled.

_ “Where,”_ read the fourth category, with _“Polis”_ circled.

Bellamy grinned as he realized whose game of M.A.S.H. this was, and then he read the word_ “Soulmate.”_

Underneath the fifth category a name was circled, with a signature Octavia heart doodled beside it.

_“Commander Murphy.”_


	19. of the elm tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when the party's over — billie eilish
> 
> [chapter cw // implied death]

Announcing that he was ill to get out of doing any Commanderly duties seemed like a real master plan, at first.

After the aborted ambassadors’ meeting and Murphy’s subsequent social blunder, his head swam with voices, all clamoring for his attention and making the world black and sore through his eyes. So, yeah, maybe he wanted to spend the rest of the evening in bed, and also the next evening, too.

It was on that next evening that Murphy tried to really savor the time he had left to drift in and out of consciousness and feel sorry for himself, knowing that the following morning he would have to iron himself out and put one foot in front of the other, with only eight days left to prepare supplies and meet with the generals until Kongeda’s ascent to the mountain.

For now, though, Murphy lied on his stomach underneath the thick covers of his bed, listening to servants come in, put things down, pick things up, and go out again.

Sometimes he slept, other times he stared at nothing, thinking about how nice it would be to go off somewhere and be on his own, by choice, doing nothing. Nobody would expect anything of him, nor would they be disappointed by anything he did, because he wouldn’t do a thing.

Sometimes that place sounded an awful lot like death instead of an island where he drank from coconuts, and if the story of the Flame was true, Murphy wouldn’t be off the hook then either.

The thought of living forever as a Commander with nothing but the memories of blood and hate and failure he had now set an enormous weight upon Murphy’s chest, one so heavy that breathing became a foreign thing.

“When I die,” he asked quietly from beneath the covers, “Do I go with all of you?”

**_“You worry about being trapped,”_**answered Flint.**_ “It is only your spirit that continues on with the Flame. Not your consciousness.”_**

**_“Your memories, and your heart,”_**said Hinko,**_ “That’s what will outlast you. That’s what outlasts us all. But you will die. Haven’t you wondered why I never grow up?”_**

“So one day, it’ll be over,” Murphy supposed, bringing his knees to his chest. His breath was warm, and it was hot under the blankets and furs, like a beach off the coast where dead people went.

**_“Yes,” _** hissed Sheidheda, voice as comforting as always. **_“You will one day be free of the world, and it will be free of you.”_**

Murphy sighed, turning his nose into the mattress. “I hope my spirit beats the crap out of yours,” he muttered, at which the other three most powerful Commanders laughed, and all the others, too, who were generally quiet or what Murphy understood as sleeping. It almost seemed like a glitch, all of their echoing voices laughing in harmony, seeing as they shouldn’t have been awake at all. The Flame never seemed to work like it was supposed to, and sometimes Murphy wondered if it was dying, and if one day it would leave him all alone.

Suddenly, “Oh,” said the voice of a real life person that Murphy hadn’t heard come in, “So you’ll talk to them but not me.”

Murphy pulled the blankets tighter over his head. “Not in the mood, Clarke,” he grumbled.

She had come by a couple times already, and each time Murphy had given her the silent treatment, hoping that if he didn’t engage she would just go away. It worked with most people, but Clarke was… stubborn, to say the least.

“You can’t avoid Bellamy forever.”

“I’m not,” Murphy mumbled, ignoring the way his stomach dropped and his heartbeat picked up. “He could come in here whenever he wanted,” he said, leaving _“but he doesn’t want to”_ unspoken, and hoped Clarke hadn’t heard it anyway.

Then the covers were whipped off of Murphy’s head and the bed creaked under a new weight, and before he could register what was happening, Clarke had thrown a leg over him and wrapped her arms around his stomach, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades. Just like old times.

“What happened?” she asked gently. “Talk to Fleimkepa.”

And Murphy could never tell her no, who, after yesterday morning, was probably his only friend in the world again.

“I screwed up royally, as per usual,” he answered, fighting to keep his face from crumpling even if she couldn’t see it. “Apparently you aren’t supposed to try and shove your hand down someone’s pants after it’s been pretty well established that you’re just friends.”

Clarke was silent for a moment that was almost too long, and then squeezed Murphy a little tighter. “Well,” she said, “It was probably just a misunderstanding. Maybe the Skypeople have different customs, and you were supposed to go up the pant leg instead of through the top.”

Murphy huffed, smiling despite himself. “This is serious,” he reminded her, and then his smile melted away. “What if he just fucks off to the camp and never talks to me again?”

“You have a funny way of acting like you want to talk to him again, holing yourself up in your room like this,” she scolded, and Murphy didn’t respond, knowing good and well how irrational he could be. Then Clarke sighed. “Murphy, _ai niron,_ it’s plain as day that he has feelings for you.”

Murphy knitted his brows, rolling over. Clarke folded her arms over his chest and placed her chin atop them, staring right back at him as he aimed a dubious look at her. “But, he said he didn’t—“

“Sometimes,” she said slowly, as if explaining something to a baby, “People get in their heads, and freak out. Sound familiar?” Murphy sneered as Clarke patted his chest. “Maybe you and I and everyone else with eyes had the wrong idea, or maybe he just needs some time. But either way, Murphy, he cares about you. He’s not going anywhere.”

Murphy searched her eyes, and so badly he wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe that things lasted, and that people stayed. But they didn’t.

“Alright,” he lied. “I hear you.”

Clarke smiled and sat up in the bed, smoothing down his hair as he looked up at her, in awe of the one who had lasted the longest. “Now, if you’re not going to do anything productive today, Lexa and I are going shopping and a little birdie told me you were in the market for a radio. Come with.”

But Murphy was never the best liar, and pulled the covers back over his head. “Next time,” he murmured.

When Clarke spoke again her voice was low, knowing it still wasn’t alright at all and probably hoping Murphy wasn’t having one of his_ spells _that the healers could never fix. “Okay, next time,” she agreed simply, which made Murphy feel like shit.

She made her way to the door on quiet feet, opening it slowly. Just before it closed again, Murphy lowered the furs from his head and asked, “Do you really believe that Commanders should be alone?”

Clarke paused with her hand on the doorway, and gave a sad sort of smile. “I think some of us are born to be loved, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

He meant to wait for the dark to settle, but couldn’t. He pulled his cloak over his head and made his winding way down the tower and stood in the doorway, feeling the autumn breeze on his face and thinking of flowers dangling from the eaves.

It was kind of nice to be back to normal, he told himself, and almost made a full circle around the tower before he finally felt like he could face the crowds in the street. Before he felt like he could touch anyone, in passing or for pay.

But before he made it into the throng, someone called out to him.

“Murphy!” they shouted, totally blowing his cover. He winced as they shouted it again. “Murphy!”

And, well. Only two people called him that, and if Clarke had spoken to him in that voice, Murphy would be horrified.

He couldn’t bear to turn around and only walked faster, chanting a silent prayer, but there it was. A big hand on his shoulder, spinning him around.

“Murphy,” Bellamy breathed, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” Murphy snapped, maybe unfairly, and received a well-warranted glare for his attitude.

“Stop running away,” he demanded, “And hiding. I’ve been trying to find you.”

“I wasn’t exactly on the lamb.”

“Yeah, apparently your guards were fucking with me,” Bellamy grumbled. “I’ve been in and out of butcher shops all day.”

Murphy sputtered out a little laugh, one that made Bellamy brighten a little. “Why would I be in a butcher shop?”

“Meat,” Bellamy explained, throwing up his hands.

“I’m the Commander,” Murphy replied, lips quirked. “I don’t buy groceries.” Bellamy scrubbed his face with his hands, letting out a ridiculously dramatic sigh.

“Forget it,” he said. “Can we talk?”

“We're talking now, aren't we?” Murphy replied, and Bellamy shook his head, slumping down against the nearest tree. Reluctantly, and feeling a little nauseous, Murphy mirrored him, sitting on the other side.

Bellamy waited a long moment, and then Murphy heard the sound of a skull thunking against wood. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m an idiot.”

“Sure you are, but why?”

Bellamy reached out and tried to swat Murphy on the other side of the tree, missing him completely. “Shut up,” he muttered. “Look, about yesterday—“

“You don’t have to say anything,” Murphy interrupted, closing his eyes and feeling like dying. “I misread… a lot, and I was out of line. I’m sorry.” And what a piss-poor apology, really, when Murphy hardly made it out of bed with the guilt and embarrassment sitting on his shoulders.

“No,” said Bellamy. “You didn’t misread anything. I wanted you, Murphy. I still do. I think I always will. There was a little voice in my head telling me it couldn’t be real because you and I happened so fast. But everything worthwhile that’s ever happened to me has happened in a matter of seconds. And— and you’re worth everything.”

Murphy sat quietly for a long moment, watching the sun sink down into the earth and imagining Bellamy’s face. Then he gave a wet laugh, wiping quickly at his eyes. “That was quite the little speech.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy replied, voice bright and thick with emotion. “I had two days to practice it.”

“What changed your mind?” Murphy asked hesitantly, clearing his throat.

“Octavia’s notebook said we would be together and live in Polis and have a pet horse, and I guess that sounded pretty good,” he explained, a playful lilt to his voice that made Murphy smile. He’d seen Octavia’s notebook at the party and been her prey, too. He knew the game by heart.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, collecting themselves, before Bellamy spoke up again. “So what do you say?” he asked. “Think I can have another chance?”

Always, Murphy thought a little wildly, _always._

Instead, he said, “If I say yes, does that mean I should jump you again, or—?“

Bellamy chuckled, a little breathy. “How about we just go slower. Do, you know, dating stuff.”

“Dating stuff?”

“Yeah, like… dates. And, um—“ Bellamy trailed off quickly, looking just as unsure of what _dating stuff_ entailed as Murphy was.

Murphy watched as a pair locked lips up in an elm, hanging onto the branches so they wouldn’t topple out. It looked perilous and stupid. “Kissing in trees?”

Bellamy laughed. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, we could kiss in trees.”

Murphy leaned around the tree trunk and raised his brows at Bellamy, glancing up at the branches above as a red leaf floated down between them. Bellamy sighed, standing up and brushing himself off. “Just don’t let me fall,” he grumbled, despite the blush darkening his face. “You know I struggle.”

“I got you,” Murphy reassured him as he climbed up behind him, laughing as Bellamy scooted onto a thick branch and held onto the tree trunk, refusing to go farther out on the limb and making Murphy do acrobatics to get past him and share the branch.

Once up, they did all number of stupid things: kicking their feet, bouncing so the branch creaked dangerously, pretending they were falling off, shoving one another. Eventually they got settled, and Murphy could have floated out of his body when Bellamy’s hand creeped over and intertwined with his.

The sun had set and left the sky blanketed in dark blue, and Murphy was watching the sliver left of the moon when he felt a hand turn his chin, and felt Bellamy kiss him, gentle, like Murphy might have fallen backwards out of the elm tree.

Against his mouth, Murphy murmured, “What am I supposed to do?”

“The _Commanders _aren’t advising you?” Bellamy asked mockingly, grinning as he kissed Murphy again, who, burning in the face, still didn’t move. Couldn't.

Murphy called upon the Flame, but was met with no more than white noise, and the feeling of being watched.

“I honestly think I might be the first one of them to ever... kiss,” he replied, leaning in to try it for himself. Bellamy quickly reached up and caught his face, stopping him, and then leaning in to kiss him slow and deep, like he was showing off.

“Well tell ‘em to watch and learn,” Bellamy suggested, and Murphy’s laugh that was sure to be followed by an insult was swallowed up as Bellamy kissed him again, making Murphy breathless and shutting him up for a long while after.

When they finally pulled apart, Bellamy’s eyes were dark and his lips were stretched in an adoring smile. It was the kind of look that Murphy never imagined he would be on the receiving end of, and he supposed he could have died then and there and been happy. But even more, he wanted this forever.

“You know being with the Commander is a dangerous game,” Murphy warned him, searching his endless eyes for doubt, and as always, finding none.

“How did that saying go?” Bellamy asked, touching their noses together. “Though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil, for I have kissed the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.”

And at that moment Murphy knew, more sure than he was the chosen one, that he was born to be loved.

They stared up at the stars for what felt like hours, until Murphy had grown cold and migrated, naturally, into Bellamy’s embrace. “What else did Octavia’s notebook say?” he asked quietly, watching their feet swing below.

Bellamy knocked the sides of their heads together like he always did, but this time he stayed there, keeping his beating heart close. “That we’d have ten babies.”

“I do like a challenge.”

“Shut up, Murphy,” Bellamy laughed.

** SIXTY-THREE YEARS LATER **

The bread-breaking ceremony went by without much of a fuss, one half for both the bride and the groom. This symbolized their willingness to give everything they had to one another, to share with their loved one and to provide for them. It was particularly tame compared to what the Ouskejonkru girl’s family did, tying the bride and groom’s wrists together and placing a large stone from the Blue Cliffs on top of the bindings.

The crowd laughed as the bride and groom tried to get through their vows, straining from the weight of the stone between them and laughing as their arms trembled. Strength, perseverance, and teamwork.

The groom wore a dark suit and had tucked a small flower in his shirt pocket, and the bride wore layers upon layers of thin, blue and white fabric, looking like a winter breeze as her long braids swished over her shoulders.

When the union came to its close, the crowd stood and threw handfuls of rice, broke clay dishes in the pair’s path as they walked hand-in-hand back toward the bride’s village for festivities. The bride’s family seemed to find all the mess and waste annoying, while the groom’s family was bewildered by the white paint the bride’s family had streaked down the line of his handsome face.

Unions between members of different clans were always fascinating and riddled with mismatching traditions, but unions between Skaikru courters and damn near anyone else were always her favorite.

She remembered Commander Murphy’s union to the Skaikru ambassador like it was yesterday. The first Commander union in history, let alone to a Skyperson. It was unheard of, like almost everything Heda had done in his time. 

He’d even put an end to the conclave, passing an order that only had the natblidas fight until they had knocked all but one victor out of the ring, after the ambassador had told him about a very stupid sport called pugil sticks.

Setting also the wild precedent for a Commander’s union, people came from all over to see the two of them unite. They had stood beneath an elm tree, the both of them in Trikru ceremonial garb, wreaths of woody vines circling both their heads like crowns. The ambassador didn’t bring any traditions of his own save for a pair of rings, and smiled peacefully as he was led through every single union tradition of every single clan in Kongeda, like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

The two men had become father figures of sorts to her, still caring for all ten natblidas well into their adulthood. Mavis felt she owed them her life, and so much more. And she missed them everyday, especially on days like these.

“Heda?” asked a beloved and always serious voice, drawing her attention back in. A flower had fallen from the bouquet the groom had prepared for the bride, and Mavis smiled as her wife twirled the flower until its petals looked fresh and even again, and then tucked it gently into Mavis’ thick hair.

She took York’s wrinkled hand in hers, giving her a peck as the bride and groom kissed in front of the great bonfire in the center of the village, sparks flying behind them. York offered her a smile, something that became, beautifully, less rare as they aged, and Mavis couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

** _“Ah, young love.”_ **

“Learned it from the best,” Mavis replied, and Commander Murphy’s spirit hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi <3
> 
> you made it! thank you so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed this story. as always, please leave a kudos and if ur feeling generous, a comment letting me know what you thought. it helps me know how im doing with my writing but it also makes me Happie and reminds me i'm not wasting my time on these stories, which take for fucking ever just saying
> 
> murphamy endgame just kidding you'll never get it
> 
> love love love love! come talk to me @slugcities on twitter :)


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